FOR  FIFTY  YEARS 


VERSES    WRITTEN  ON  OCCASION,  IN  THE 

COURSE  OF  THE  NINETEENTH 

CENTURY 


"  If  it  were  his  duty  to  write  verses,  he  wrote  verses  ; 
to  fight  slavers,  he  fought  slavers ;  to  write  sermons,  he 
wrote  sermons ;  and  he  did  one  of  these  things  with  just 
as  much  alacrity  as  another."  —  hlemoir  of  Frederic 
Ingham 


EDWARD    E.    HALE 

•r 

AUTHOR    OF    "HOW    TO    Dt)    IT,"    "TEN    TIMES   ONE    IS   TEN,' 

"IN    HIS    NAME,"    AND   "PRACTICAL   CHRISTIANITY 

APPLIED    IN    THE   MANUFACTURE   OF 

WOOLLENS  " 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS 
1893 


, 

Bv  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.  A 


For  such  pleasure  as  these  verses  may  give  to  my 
children  and  to  theirs,  and  to  some  other  friends,  I 
have  collected  them,  —  with  a  certain  difficulty,  which 
will  be  easily  understood. 

To  these  indulgent  readers  they  are  dedicated. 

EDWARD   E.   HALE. 
ROXBURY,  April  13,  1893. 


PREFACE. 


THIS  collection  would  hardly  have  been  made 
but  for  the  courage  and  kindness  of  the  Ladies 
of  my  Staff.  They  were  loyal  enough  to  their 
chief  to  find  these  poems,  to  copy  them,  and  to 
give  me  the  collection  in  their  own  hand-writ 
ing,  as  a  present  on  my  birthday,  —  the  day  I 
was  seventy  years  old. 

When  I  saw  that  the  collection  was  so  con 
siderable,  I  determined  to  print  it,  with  the 
motto  from  Colonel  Ingham's  life,  which  I  have 
copied  on  the  titlepage.  My  children  will  be 
glad  to  have  the  book ;  let  me  hope  that  theirs 
will,  as  I  know  some  unknown  friends  of  mine 
will  welcome  it;  for  a  book  "is  a  letter  to  the 
friends  we  have  never  seen." 

EDWARD    E.    HALE. 


CONTENTS. 


I.  Ballatis  antJ 

PAGE 

NEW  ENGLAND'S  CHEVY  CHASE 9 

THE  GREAT  HARVEST  YEAR 16 

THE  LAMENTABLE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BLOUDY  BROOK  .  33 

THE  BALLAD  OF  BEN  FRANKLIN  AT  THE  INN    ...  36 

ANNE  HUTCHINSON'S  EXILE 40 

THE  OLD  SOUTH  PICTURE-GALLERY 44 

THE  THREE  ANNIVERSARIES 50 

THE  STORY  OF  A  DORY 52 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BELL 55 

II.    College  Ueraea. 

FROM  "CLASS  POEM,"  1839 59 

A  SONG  FOR  THE  PHI  BETA  KAPPA  DINNER  OF  1839  61 

1864 63 

ALMA  MATER'S  ROLL 68 

HARVARD  AND  YALE 72 

FOR  FORTY  YEARS 73 

THE  CALL  TO  DINNER 76 

AT  COMMENCEMENT  DINNER 78 


IV  CONTENTS. 

III.    £ 


PAGE 
TAKE  THE  LOAN     ..............      81 

OLD  FANEUIL  HALL  .............      83 

PUT  IT  THROUGH  !  ..............      85 

THE  INTERNAL  REVENUE    ..........      87 


IV.    translations. 

A  CHORUS  FROM  IPHEGENIA  IN  TAURIS     .....  91 

FROM  HEINE  ................  95 

NEPTUNE  DESCENDING    ............  98 

FROM  MARTIAL  ...............  100 


V.    JJrom  Sermons  anti  tfje  Bible, 

ALL  SOULS     ................  105 

"!N  LOVE  THE  LIFE  OF  HEAVEN  WE  FOUND"    .    .     .  107 

UNDER  LAURELS  AND  MAPLES    .........  108 

THE  CARAVAN    ...............  109 

JEHOVAH  LIVETH  ..............  110 

THE  LORD  OF  THE  VINEYARD     .........  in 

"As  A  LITTLE  CHILD"    ............  112 

ELI  AND  SAMUEL    .....  '    .........  113 

HAGAR  DEPARTED  ..............  114 

PALM  SUNDAY  AND  EASTER    ..........  116 

ON  A  YOUNG  PREACHER     ...........  117 


CONTENTS.  V 

VI.    Sonnets,  Ualentmes,  Birtfjtmgg,  etc., 
anil  so  forlfj. 

PAGE 

"!F  JOHNSON,  WHITNEY,  AND  JOHN  WALKER  LET"  .  121 

"SEND  ME!" 122 

SONNET I23 

WHITE,  BLUE,  AND  GREEN 124 

A  VALENTINE 125 

ON  THE  TRAIN 126 

ON  THE  AUTOCRAT'S  EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY  ....  128 

MY  GOLD  MINE 13° 


I. 

BALLADS   AND   HISTORY. 


BALLADS   AND    HISTORY. 


NEW  ENGLAND'S  CHEVY  CHASE. 

TWAS  the  dead   of  the   night,     By  the  pine- 
knot's  red  light 
Brooks  lay,  half-asleep,  when  he    heard  the 

alarm, — 
Only  this,   and   no  more,   from  a  voice  at  the 

door : 

"  The  Red-Coats  are  out,  and  have  passed 
Phips's  farm." 

Brooks  was  booted  and  spurred ;   he  said  never 

a  word; 

Took  his  horn  from  its  peg,  and  his  gun  from 
the  rack  ; 


10  FOR   FIFTY  YEARS. 

1  .To"  the  Col'd:  midm'ght  air  he  led  out  his  white 

::  .;.-:.'.P?.a£e*»."  !'  ••-. 

:  J'sifippedfihetgi-iths-and  the  bridle,  and  sprang 
to  her  back. 

Up  the  North  Country  Road  at  her  full  pace 

she  strode, 
Till  Brooks  reined  her  up  at  John  Tarbell's 

to  say, 
"  We   have    got    the    alarm,  —  they   have   left 

Phips's  farm; 

You  rouse  the  East  Precinct,  and  I  '11  go  this 
way." 

John  called  his  hired  man,  and  they  harnessed 

the  span ; 
They   roused   Abram    Garfield,    and    Abram 

called  me  : 
"  Turn    out    right    away ;     let    no    minute-man 

stay; 

The  Red-Coats  have  landed  at  Phips's,"  says 
he. 


BALLADS   AND   HISTORY.  II 

By  the  Powder-House  Green  seven  others  fell  in  ; 
At    Nahum's,    the    men    from    the    Saw-Mill 

came  down  ; 
So  that  when   Jabez  Bland  gave  the  word  of 

command, 

And  said,  "  Forward,  march  ! "  there  marched 
forward  THE  TOWN. 

Parson  Wilderspin  stood  by  the  side  of  the  road, 
And  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  he  said,  "  Let  us 

pray ! 

O  Lord,  God  of  Might,  let  thine  angels  of  light 
Lead  thy  children  to-night  to  the  glories  of 

day! 

And  let  thy  stars  fight  all  the  foes  of  the  Right 
As  the  stars  fought  of  old  against  Sisera." 

And  from  heaven's  high  arch  those  stars  blessed 

our  march, 

Till  the  last  of  them  faded  in  twilight  away  ; 
And  with  morning's  bright  beam,  by  the  bank 

of  the  stream, 

Half  the  county  marched  in,  and  we  heard 
Davis  say : 


12  FOR   FIFTY  YEARS. 

"  On  the  King's  own  highway  I  may  travel  all 

day, 
And  no  man  hath  warrant  to  stop  me,"  says 

he; 
"I've  no  man  that's  afraid,  and  I'll  march  at 

their  head." 

Then  he  turned   to  the    boys,  —  "  Forward, 
march  !     Follow  me." 

And  we  marched  as  he  said ;   and  the  Fifer  he 

played 
The   old    "  White    Cockade,"  and   he  played 

it  right  well. 

We  saw  Davis  fall  dead,  but  no  man  was  afraid ; 
That  bridge  we  'd  have  had,  though  a  thou 
sand  men  fell. 

This  opened  the  play,  and  it  lasted  all  day. 
We  made  Concord  too  hot  for  the  Red-Coats 

to  stay; 
Down  the   Lexington  way  we  stormed,  black, 

white,  and  gray; 

We   were  first  in  the  feast,  and  were  last  in 
*     the  fray. 


BALLADS   AND   HISTORY.  13 

They  would  turn  in  dismay,  as  red  wolves  turn 

at  bay. 
They  levelled,  they   fired,    they  charged    up 

the  road. 
Cephas  Willard  fell  dead;    he  was  shot  in  the 

head 
As  he  knelt  by  Aunt  Prudence's  well-sweep 

to  load. 

John  Danforth  was  hit  just  in  Lexington  Street, 
John    Bridge    at  that   lane  where   you    cross 

Beaver  Falls, 
And   Winch   and   the   Snows  just  above  John 

Munroe's,  — 

Swept  away  by  one  swoop  of  the  big  cannon- 
balls. 

I  took  Bridge  on  my  knee,  but  he  said,  "Don't 

mind  me; 

Fill  your  horn  from  mine,  —  let  me  lie  where  I  be. 
Our  fathers,"   says  he,  "  that  their  sons  might 

be  free, 
Left  their  king  on  his  throne,  and  came   over 

the  sea; 


14  FOR   FIFTY  YEARS. 

And  that  man  is  a  knave  or  a  fool  who,  to  save 
His  life  for  a  minute,  would  live  like  a  slave." 

Well,  all  would  not  do  !     There  were  men  good 

as  new,  — 
From  Rumford,  from  Saugus,  from  towns  far 

away,  — 
Who  filled  up  quick  and  well  for  each  soldier 

that  fell; 
And   we  drove  them,   and   drove  them,   and 

drove  them,  all  day. 

We  knew,  every  one,  it  was  War  that  begun, 
When  that  morning's   marching  was  only  half 

done. 

In  the  hazy  twilight,  at  the  coming  of  night, 

I  crowded  three  buckshot  and  one  bullet  down. 
Twas  my  last  charge  of  lead;   and  I  aimed  her 

and  said, 

"  Good  luck  to  you,  lobsters,  in  old  Boston 
Town." 

In   a  barn   at  Milk   Row,   Ephraim  Bates  and 

Monroe 
And  Baker  and  Abram  and  I  made  a  bed. 


BALLADS  AND   HISTORY.  15 

We  had  mighty  sore    feet,  and  we'd    nothing 

to  eat ; 
But  we'd  driven  the  Red-Coats,  and  Amos, 

he  said : 

"It's  the  first  time,"  says  he,  "  that  it's  hap 
pened  to  me 
To  march  to  the  sea  by  this  road  where  we  've 

come; 
But  confound  this  whole  day,  but  we  'd  all  of  us 

say 

We'd  rather  have  spent  it  this  way  than  to 
home,"  * 


The  hunt  had  begun  with  the  dawn  of  the  sun, 
And  night  saw  the  wolf  driven  back  to  his  den. 

And  never  since  then,  in  the  memory  of  men, 
Has  the  Old  Bay  State  seen  such  a  hunting 
again. 

APRIL  19,  1882. 


*  One  of  the  veterans  of  the  Lexington  fight  told 
his  story  of  it  to  Mr.  Edward  Everett.  Mr.  Everett 
said,  "You  have  never  regretted  that  day,  I  am  sure," 
and  the  old  man  replied,  "  Well,  I  'd  rather  have  spent  it 
so  than  to  hum." 


THE   GREAT   HARVEST  YEAR.* 

THE  night  the  century  ebbed  out,  all  worn 
with  work  and  sin, 

The  night  a  twentieth  century,  all  fresh  with 
hope,  came  in, 

The  children  watched,  the  evening  long,  the 
midnight  clock  to  see, 

And  to  wish  to  one  another  "  A  Happy  Cen 
tury  !  " 

They  climbed  upon  my  knee,  and  they  tumbled 
on  the  floor ; 

And  Bob  and  Nell  came  begging  me  for  stones 
of  the  War. 

But  I  told  Nell  that  I  would  tell  no  tales 
but  tales  of  peace,  — 

*  The  harvest  of  the  year  1878  was  by  far  the  largest 
harvest  which  ever  ripened  in  America.  The  exports 
of  food  were  much  greater  than  ever  before.  They  have 
been  much  larger  since. 


BALLADS  AND   HISTORY.  17 

God  grant  that  for  a  hundred  years  the  tales 

of  war  might  cease  ! 
I  told  them  I  would  tell  them  of  the  blessed 

Harvest  Store, 
Of  the  year  in  which  God  fed  men  as  they  ne'er 

were  fed  before; 
For  till  that  year  of  matchless  cheer,  since  suns 

or  worlds  were   made, 
Never   sent   land   to    other   lands    such   gift  of 

Daily  Bread! 


THE  WAR    was    done,   and    men    began    to 

live  in  peaceful  ways, 
For   thirteen   years    of  hopes   and    fears,   dark 

nights  and  joyful  days. 
If  wealth   would   slip,    if  wit   would   trip,   and 

neither  would  avail, 
"  Lo !  the  seed-time  and  the  harvest,"  saith  the 

Lord,  "  shall  never  fail." 
And  to  all  change  of  ups  and  downs,  to  every 

hope  and  fear, 
To  men's  amaze  came  round  the  days  of  the 

Great  Harvest  Year, 


1 8  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

When   God's  command  bade  all  the  land  join 

heart  and  soul  and  mind, 
And  health  and  wealth,  and  hand  and  land,  for 

feeding  half  mankind. 

So  hot  the  noons  of  ripe  July  that  men  took 

day  for  sleep, 
And  when   the  night   shone  clear  and   bright, 

they  took  their  time  to  reap ; 
Nor  can  the  men  cut  all  the  grain  when  hungry 

worlds  are  fed, 
So  the  ready  Ruths  and  Orpahs  are  gleaning 

in  their  stead. 
All  through  the  heated  summer  day  the  Kansas 

maidens  slept, 
All  through  the  night,  with  laughter  light,  their 

moonlight  vigil  kept; 
From   set   of  sun  the   kindly   moon   until   the 

break  of  day 
Watched  o'er  their  lightsome  harvest-work,  and 

cheered  them  on  their  way. 
They  drove  their  handsome  horses  down,  they 

drove  them  up  again, 
While  "  click,   click,   click,"  the  rattling  knives 

cut  off  the   heavy  grain; 


BALLADS   AND   HISTORY.  19 

Before    it   falls,  around   the    straw  the   waiting 

wires  wind, 
And  the  well-ordered  sheaves  are  left   in  still 

array  behind. 
So  laughing  girls  the  harvest  reap,  all  chattering 

the  while, 
While    "  click,    click,    click,"    the    shears    keep 

their  chorus,  mile   by  mile  ; 
And  lazy  Morning  blushes  when  she  sees  the 

harvest  stands 
In  ordered  files,  those  miles  on  miles,  to  feed 

the  hungry  lands.* 

Far  in  the  South,  from  day  to  day,  a  living 

tide  swept  forth, 

As,  wave  on   wave,  the  herds   of  kine  flowed 
slowly  to  the  North. 


*  This  verse  was  challenged,  strange  to  say,  by  a 
Western  editor,  who  said  Mr.  Hale  had  drawn  on  his 
imagination  for  his  facts.  I  sent  to  one  grange  in 
Kansas,  offering  a  small  present  to  any  girl  who  would 
give  me  her  name  as  having  driven  a  reaper  by  moon 
light.  I  had  to  send  four  of  my  presents  to  kind 
correspondents  who  had  done  so. 


20  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

Great  broad-horned  oxen,  tender-eyed,  and  such 

as  Juno  loved, 
In   troops  no    man    could  number,   across   the 

prairie  moved. 
Behind,  along  their  wavy  line,  the  brown  ran- 

cheros  rode, 
From  east  to  west,  from  west  to  east,  as  North 

the  column  flowed, 
To  keep  the  host  compact  and  close  from  morn 

to  setting  sun, 
Nor  on  the  way  leave  one  estray,  as  the  great 

tide  poured  on. 
A   fair-haired    Saxon   boy   beside    commanded 

the  array, 
And  as  it  flowed  along  the  road,  I   heard  the 

stripling  say, 
"  'T  is  God's  command  these  beeves  shall  stand 

upon  the  Cheviot  Hills, 
The   land   to  feed   where    rippling   Tweed   the 

lowland  dews  distils;" 
So   the    great   herd    flows   Northward,    as   the 

All-Father  wills. 

Far    in   the    North   the   winter's    gales   blew 

sharply  from  northwest, 

And  locked  the  lakes  and  rivers,  hard  in  their 
icy  rest. 


BALLADS   AND   HISTORY.  21 

I  saw  men  scrape  the  crystal  lakes  to  clear  them 

from  the  snow, 
I    saw   them   drive   in   long   straight   lines   the 

ice-ploughs  to  and  fro ; 
The   blocks   of  amethyst  they   slid  up  to  the 

sheltering  shed 
By  the  long  lines  of  ready  rail;   and  as  they 

worked  they  said, 
"  Drive    close   the   blocks,    nor    leave   a   chink 

between  for  breath  of  air; 
Not  winter's  wind  nor  summer's  sun  may  ever 

enter  there, 
But  square  and  dry  and  hard  and  smooth  the 

ice  must  ready  be, 
When  summer  suns  are  blazing,  for  its  journey 

to  the  sea, 
To  pack  the  meat  and  keep  it  sweet,  as  the  good 

God  commands, 
To  feed  his  hungry  children  in  so  many  waiting 

lands." 

And  far  away  from  Northern  ice  and   drifts  of 

crystal  snows, 
On   the   rich   coast    where   deep   and   red   the 

Mississippi  flows, 


22  FOR   FIFTY  YEARS. 

When  the  thick  sugar-canes  were  ripe  beneath 

the  autumn  sun 
We  listened  for  the  earliest  cock  to  tell  of  day 

begun. 
In  the  cool  sugar-house  I  slept  upon  my  pallet 

bed, 
Where    Pierre   Milhet,    my  princely   host,   had 

called  his  men,  and  said, 
"  At  morning's  call  be  ready  all  to  meet  here  at 

the  mill, 
That  not  one  drop  may  lazy  stop  before  the  vats 

we  fill. 
What  man  will  be  the  first  at  dawn  from  lazy 

sleep  to  rise, 
When  the   first  gray  of  daybreak  pales  in  the 

eastern  skies, 
What  man  will  first  his  load  of  cane  fling  down 

before  the  door, 
For  that  man's  wife  I  give  as  prize  this  old-time 

louis  d'or." 
And  all  day  long  the  hard-pressed  mules  the 

heaps  of  ripened  cane 
Brought  swiftly  to   the  mill,  and   then  rushed 

back  to  bring  again, 


BALLADS   AND   HISTORY.  23 

That  all  day  long  the  rollers  the  fresh  supply 

might  grind, 
Nor  should  one  stalk  be  left  not  gleaned  on  the 

intervale  behind. 
So  black  and  white,  with  main  and  might,  are 

all  united  here, 
Lest  the  harvest  lack  its  sweets  in  God's  Great 

Harvest  Year. 

The  boys  and  girls  the  orchards  thronged  in 

those  October  days 
Where  the  golden  sun  shone  hotly  down  athwart 

the  purple  haze. 
It  warmed  the  piles  of  ruddy  fruit  which  lay 

beneath  the  trees, 
From  which  the  apples,  red  and  gold,  fell  down 

with  every  breeze. 
The  smallest  boy  would  creep  along  to  clasp 

the  farthest  bough, 
And  throw  the  highest  pippin  to  some  favored 

girl  below. 
The  sound  hard  fruit  with  care  we  chose,  we 

wiped  them  clean  and  dry, 
While  in  the   refuse  heaps,  unused,  we  let  the 

others  lie. 


24  FOR   FIFTY  YEARS. 

For  pigs  and  cows  and  oxen  those;  for  other 

lands  were  these, 
And  only  what  was  hard  and  sound  should  sail 

across  the  seas. 
Then,  as  the  sun  went  down  too  soon,  we  piled 

the  open  crates, 
And  dragged  them  full  where  cellar  cool  threw 

wide  its  waiting  gates, 
So  that  the  air  which  circled  there  was  cold,  but 

not  too  cold, 
To  keep  for  Eastern  rivalry  our  Western  fruit  of 

gold. 
And  as  old  Evans  thoughtful  stood,  and  watched 

the  boys  that  day, 
I   stood  so   near  that  I  could  hear  the  grim  old 

Shaker  say, 
"  Shame  on  our  Yankee  orchards,  if  the  fruit 

should  not  be  good, 
The  year  the   land    at  God's    command  sends 

half  the  world  its  food  !  " 

I  saw  what  wealth  untold  of  corn  our  gracious 

God  bestowed, 

As   for  one  autumn  day  I  sped  down  the  Rock 
River  Road. 


BALLADS  AND   HISTORY.  25 

All  night  we  slept;  but  still  we  kept  our  tireless 

way  till  morn, 
And   with    the    light,    on    left   and    right    still 

stretched  those  shocks  of  corn. 
A  hundred  thousand  girls  that  year  wore  their 

engagement  ring, 
And  a  hundred  thousand  others  before  another 

spring; 
But  when  the  husking   parties  came,  with   all 

their  frolic  play, 
Those  "  corn-fed  maidens "  might  have  kissed 

and  kissed  and  kissed  all  day, 
And  although  they  kissed  the  boys  but  once  for 

every  thousandth  ear, 
They   would   not   kiss   for   half   the  corn   that 

blessed  harvest  year. 
Yet  buxom  girls  and  hearty  boys  were  ready,  as 

they  could, 
To  send  love's  blessing  with  the  trains  that  took 

the  world  its  food. 
For    since    God    smiled    upon    his    child,    in 

comfort  or  in  care, 
Was  never   yet   such    answer   made  to   all   his 

children's  prayer. 


26  FOR   FIFTY  YEARS. 

A  northeast  gale,  with  snow  and  hail,   bore 

down  upon  the  sea; 
With  heavy  rolls,  beneath  bare  poles,  we  drifted 

to  the  lee. 
When  morning  broke,  the  skipper  spoke,  and 

never  sailor  shirked, 
But  with  a  will,  though  cold  and  chill,  from  morn 

to  night  we  worked. 
Off  in  the  spray  the  livelong  day  our  spinning 

lines  we  threw, 
And  on  each  hook  a  struggling  fish  back  to  the 

deck  we  drew. 
I  know  I  looked  to  windward  once,  but  the  old 

man  scowled,  and  said, 
"  Let  no   man  flinch,  nor  give  an  inch,  before 

his  stent  is  made. 
We  Ve  nothing  for  it,  shipmates,  but  to  heave 

the  lines  and  pull, 
Till  each  man's  share  has  made  the  fare,  and 

every  cask  is  full. 
This  is  no  year  for  half  a  fare,  for  God  this 

year  decreed 
That  the  forty  States  their  hungry  mates  in  all 

the  lands  shall  feed." 


BALLADS   AND   HISTORY.  2/ 

No  interval  nor  hindrance  the  long  procession 

break 
Of  the  legion  which  the  swine-herds  drive  by 

the  City  of  the  Lake. 
Up    death's     long     way     it     moves     all     day, 

unconscious  of  its  fate, 
As  swine  with  boars  contending  hurry  forward 

to  the  gate. 
Thousands    behind    unwary   crowd    upon   their 

leaders'  tracks. 
Nor     hesitate     nor    falter     as    they    near    the 

headsman's  axe. 
For  me,  I  stood  away  from  blood  and  the  silent 

stroke  of  death, 
Where  they  packed  the  meat  for  the  world  to 

eat,  in  the  basement  crypt  beneath. 
I  watched  the  task,  as  cask  by  cask  was  rolled 

by  stalwart  men, 
And  car  on  car  to  travel  far  was  added  to  the 

train ; 
Nor  ceased  it  then,  but  train  on  train  pushed 

forth  upon  the  rail, 
Lest  in  some  land  the  day's  demand  for  daily 

food  should  fail. 


28  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

For  there  shall  not  be  a  ship  on  the  sea,  to  sail 

or  far  or  near, 
But  the  shipmates  shall  bless  the  plenteousness 

of  the  Great  Harvest  Year. 

From   last   year's    rice    the    black    men   the 

heaviest  clusters  choose, 
And  cull  and  thresh  from  every  head  the  finest 

seed  for  use. 
They  beat   it   clean,  they   clayed   it  well,    and 

when  the  field  was  sowed, 
Up  slid  the  sluice,  and  o'er  the  lands  rushed  in 

the  waiting  flood, 
And  then,  without  a  ripple,  above  the  trenches 

stood. 
Soon  through  the  glassy   waters  shot   up    the 

needles  green, 
With  not  a  tare  nor  "volunteer"  nor  choking 

weed  between. 
Then  month  by  month  the  joints  grew  up,  so 

long  and  strong  and  high, 
That  the  tall  men   who   hoed  them   last   were 

hidden  from  the  sky. 
But   all   the    same,   when   harvest   came,   their 

sickles  cut  them  low, 


BALLADS   AND   HISTORY.  2Q 

And  they  left  the  heads  to  ripen  on  the  stubble 

patch  below. 
From  field  to  flats,  in  flats  to  barns,  they  bear 

the  rice,  until 
To  thresh  and  beat,  and  clean  and  clear,  they 

leave  it  at  the  mill. 
The  yellow  husk  is  torn  away,  and  the  waiting 

casks  receive 
The  stream  of  ice-white  jewels  from  the  great 

iron  sieve. 
So  the  black  man's  care  sends  out  his  share,  for 

he  knows  that  God  has  said 
That  his  people  here  in  his  Harvest  Year  shall 

send  his  world  its  bread. 

While  fields  were  bright  with  summer  light, 

and  heaven  was  all  ablaze, 
O'er  the  broad  Mohawk  pastures  I  saw  the  cattle 

graze. 
At  early  day  they  take  their  way,  when  cheerful 

morning  warns, 
And  slowly  leave  the  shelter  of  the  hospitable 

barns. 
The  widow's  son  drew  all  the  milk  which   the 

crowded  bag  would  yield, 


30  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

And  sent  his  pretty  Durham  to  her  breakfast  in 

the  field. 
One  portion  then  for  the  children's    bowls  the 

urchin  set  away, 
One    part    he    set    for     cream    for    the    next 

churning-day ; 
But   there   was   left   enough  for  one  little  can 

beside, 
And  with  this   the  thrifty  shaver  to    the    great 

cheese  factory  hied. 
His    milk    was    measured    with   the    rest,    and 

poured  into  the  stream, 
And  as  he  turned  away  he  met  Van  Antwerp's 

stately  team, 
Which     bore    a    hundred     gallons     from     the. 

milking  of  that  day, 
And  this  was  poured  to  swell  the  hoard  fed  by 

that  milky  way. 
The    snowy    curd    is   fitly    stirred;     the     cruel 

presses  squeeze 
Until   the  last  weak  drop  has  passed,  and    lo, 

the  solid  cheese ! 
In  Yorkshire  mill,  on  Snowdon's  hill,  men  eat  it 

with  their  bread, 


BALLADS   AND   HISTORY.  31 

Nor  think  nor  ask  of  the  distant  task  of  the  boy 

by  whom  they  're  fed. 
But  when  autumn's  done  the  widow's  son  stands 

at  Van  Antwerp's  side, 
And  takes  in  his  hand  his  dividend  paid  for  the 

milky  tide. 

So  South  and  North  the  food  send  forth  to 

meet  the  nations'  need  ; 
So  black  and  white,  with  main  and  might,  the 

hungry  peoples  feed. 
Since   God   bade   man   subdue   the   earth,  and 

harvest-time  began, 
Never  in  any  land  has  earth  been  so  subdued 

by  man. 


PRAISE  God  for  wheat,  so  white  and  sweet 

of  which  to  make  our  bread  ! 
Praise    God    for   yellow    corn,    with    which    his 

waiting  world  is  fed  ! 
Praise  God  for  fish  and  flesh  and  fowl,  he  gave 

to  man  for  food  ! 
Praise  God  for  every  creature  which  he  made, 

and  called  it  good  ! 


32  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

Praise   God    for   winter's   store   of  ice !     Praise 

God  for  summer's  heat ! 
Praise    God    for    fruit-tree    bearing    seed ;   "  to 

you  it  is  for  meat "  ! 
Praise    God    for   all   the   bounty  by  which  the 

world  is  fed ! 
Praise  God  his  children  all,  to  whom  he  gives 

their  daily  bread ! 


THE  LAMENTABLE  BALLAD  OF  THE 
BLOUDY  BROOK. 

AS  READ  AT   THE   DEERFIELD   CELEBRATION,  OCTOBER 
17,    1888. 

COME  listen  to  the  Story  of  brave  Lathrop  and 

his  Men, — 

How  they  fought,  how  they  died, 
When  they  marched  against  the  Red  Skins  in 

the  Autumn  Days,  and  then 
How  they  fell,  in  their  pride, 
By  Pocumtuck  Side. 

"  Who  will  go  to  Deerfield  Meadows  and  bring 

the  ripened  Grain?  " 
Said  old  Mosely  to  his  men  in  Array. 
"  Take  the  Wagons  and  the  Horses,  and  bring  it 

back  again; 

But  be  sure  that  no  Man  stray 
All  the  Day,  on  the  Way." 


34  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

Then  the  Flower  of  Essex  started,  with  Lathrop 

at  their  head, 

Wise  and  brave,  bold  and  true. 
He  had  fought  the  Pequots  long  ago,  and  now 

to  Mosely  said, 

"  Be  there  Many,  be  there  Few, 
I  will  bring  the  Grain  to  you." 

They   gathered   all  the   Harvest,   and  marched 

back  on  their  Way 
Through    the    Woods    which    blazed    like 

Fire. 
No  Soldier  left  the  Line  of  march  to  wander  or 

to  stray, 
Till    the    Wagons    were     stalled     in     the 

Mire, 
And  the  Beasts  began  to  tire. 

The  Wagons  have  all  forded  the   Brook   as   it 

flows, 

And  then  the  Rear-Guard  stays 
To  pick  the  Purple  Grapes  that  are  hanging  from 

the  Boughs, 

When,  crack  !  —  to  their  Amaze, 
A  hundred  Fire-locks  blaze  ! 


BALLADS   AND   HISTORY.  35 

Brave  Lathrop,  he  lay  dying;  but  as  he  fell  he 

cried, 

"Each  Man  to  his  Tree,"  said  he, 
"  Let  no  one  yield  an  Inch;  "  and  so  the  Soldier 

died; 

And  not  a  Man  of  all  can  see 
Where  the  Foe  can  be. 

And  Philip  and  his  Devils  pour  in  their  Shot 

so  fast, 

From  behind  and  before, 
That  Man  after  Man  is  shot  down  and  breathes 

his  last. 

Every  Man  lies  dead  in  his  Gore 
To  fight  no  more,  —  no  more  ! 

Oh,  weep,  ye  Maids  of  Essex,  for  the  Lads  who 

have  died,  — 

The  Flower  of  Essex  they  ! 
The  Bloody   Brook  still   ripples  by   the   black 

Mountain-side, 
But   never   shall  they    come   again  to   see   the 

ocean-tide, 
And  never  shall  the  Bridegroom  return  to  his 

Bride, 
From  that  dark  and  cruel  Day,  —  cruel  Day  ! 


THE  BALLAD   OF  BEN   FRANKLIN 
AT   THE   INN.* 

IT   was   Mr.   Benjamin   Franklin,  a-carrying  of 

the  mail 

(Sing  ho,  for  the  tallow-chandler's  brother  !)  ; 
He   had   to   be   at    Newport    Friday   morning 

without  fail 
(Sing    rather,   t'other,    pother,    fuss,  and 

bother!). 

When  passing  Trustum  Pond,  as  he  rode  with 
might  and  main, 


*  The  historical  authority  for  this  ballad  is  in  an 
earlier  excellent  ballad,  printed  in  the  Connecticut  Gaz 
ette  in  1818.  I  wish  I  knew  who  wrote  it.  It  was  called 
"  Franklin's  Wit,"  and  begins,  "  Franklin,  one  night, 
cold,  freezing  to  his  skin." 

I  am  told  that  the  story  is  more  than  two  thousand 
years  old.  The  scene  must  have  been  between  New 
York  and  Newport,  and  I  took  the  liberty  to  place  it  at 

Willow  Dell. 

E.  E.  H. 


BALLADS  AND   HISTORY.  37 

He  was  soaked  to  the  skin  by  the  thunder  and 

the  rain ; 
And  when  he  came  to  Dead  Man's  Brook  his 

pony  stumbled  in, 
And   tumbled   Mr.  Franklin   off,    and  wet  him 

through  again 
(Sing  ho,  for  the  tallow-chandler's  mother !). 

"  Speed  up,"  he  cried,  "  and  bring  me  to  the  inn 

at  Willow  Dell " 

(Sing  ho,  for  the  tallow-chandler's  cousin  !) ; 
"  Ben   Seegar   there   shall   give   you   oats   and 

Hiram  groom  you  well  " 
(Sing  ten,  eleven,  twelve,  a  baker's  dozen  !). 
So  quick  they  strode  along  the  road,  and  here 

he  entered  in, 
And  first,  of  course,  he  left  his  horse  all  wetted 

to  the  skin. 
But    lo !    so    many   people   were    around    the 

landlord's  fire 
That    he    was    forced    to    stand    outside,   and 

could  n't  come  no  nigher 
(Sing   five  and  four  and  two  and  one's  a 

dozen!). 


38  FOR   FIFTY  YEARS. 

"  Good  friend,"  said  Mr.  Franklin,  as  if  it  were 

of  course 

(Sing  Trustum  Bay  and    lobster-claw   and 
clam-shell !), 

"  I  wish  that  you  would  give  a  peck  of  oysters 

to  my  horse  " 

(Sing  lobster-claw  and  pickerel  and  clam 
shell  !). 

The  landlord  heard  without  a  word;   and  quick 
as  he  was  able, 

He  shelled  the  fish  and  took  the  dish  of  oysters 
to  the  stable ; 

And  with  surprise  in  all  their  eyes,  the  people 
left  the  stranger, 

And  crossed  the  yard  in  tempest  hard,  to  crowd 
around  the  manger. 

Ben  Franklin,  he  cared  not  to  see,  but  took  the 
warmest  seat, 

And  hung  his  coat  above  the  fire,  and  sat  and 

dried  his  feet 

(Sing  centipede  and  crocodile  and   bomb 
shell  !). 


BALLADS   AND   HISTORY.  39 

Five  minutes  more,  and  through  the  door  came 

Mr.  Landlord,  swearing 
(Sing  Oliver,  Tom   Nopes,  and   Benjamin 

Seegar!); 
And  after  him  came  all  the  folks,  a-wondering 

and  a-staring 
(Sing    Oliver,    Queen    Moll,    and    Colonel 

Wager !). 
"  Your    horse    won't    touch    the    oysters,    sir, 

although  they're  fresh  and  new,  sir." 
"  He  won't?"  asked  Mr.  Franklin;   "  That's  no 

offence  to  you,  sir. 
You  see  he  does  n't  know  what 's  good ;  but  if 

he  don't,  I  do,  sir  " 
(Sing    rheumatiz    and    gout    and  shaking 

ager!); 
"  If  he  had  tried  your  oysters  fried  he   might 

not  then  refuse  'em, 
But  I  will  sit  and  toast  my  feet  while  Mistress 

Bowers  stews  'em." 


ANNE   HUTCHINSON'S   EXILE. 

A   BALLAD. 

"HOME,  home — where 's  my  baby's  home? 
Here  we  seek,  there  we  seek  my  baby's  home 

to  find. 
Come,  come,  come,  my  baby,  come ! 

We  found  her  home,  we  lost  her  home,  and 

home  is  far  behind. 
Come,  my  baby,  come  ! 
Find  my  baby's  home !  " 

The  baby  clings;   the  mother  sings;  the  pony 

stumbles  on ; 
The  father  leads  the  beast  along  the  tangled, 

muddy  way; 
The  boys  and  girls  trail  on  behind ;  the  sun  will 

soon  be  gone, 

And  starlight  bright  will  take  again  the  place 
of  sunny  day. 


BALLADS  AND    HISTORY.  41 

"  Home,  home  — where 's  my  baby's  home? 
Here   we   seek,    there    we   seek,    my   baby's 

home  to  find. 
Come,  come,  come,  my  baby,  come ! 

We  found  her  home,  we  lost  her  home,  and 

home  is  far  behind. 
Come,  my  baby,  come  ! 
Find  my  baby's  home  !  " 

The  sun  goes  down  behind  the  lake ;   the  night 

fogs  gather  chill, 
The    children's   clothes    are    torn;    and    the 

children's  feet  are  sore. 
"  Keep  on,  my  boys,  keep  on,  my  girls,  till  all 

have  passed  the  hill ; 
Then  ho,  my  girls,  and  ho,  my  boys,  for  fire 

and  sleep  once  more !  " 
And  all  the  time  she  sings  to  the  baby  on  her 

breast, 
"  Home,  my  darling,  sleep,   my  darling,  find  a 

place  for  rest ; 
Who  gives  the  fox  his  burrow  will  give  my  bird 

a  nest. 

Come,  my  baby,  come ! 
Find  my  baby's  home  !  " 


42  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

He  lifts  the  mother  from  the  beast;  the  hemlock 

boughs  they  spread, 

And  make  the  baby's  cradle  sweet  with  fern- 
leaves  and  with  bays. 
The  baby  and  her  mother  are  resting  on  their 

bed; 
He  strikes  the  flint,  he  blows  the  spark,  and 

sets  the  twigs  ablaze. 
"  Sleep,  my  child  ;  sleep,  my  child  ! 
Baby,  find  her  rest, 
Here   beneath   the  gracious  skies,  upon  her 

father's  breast; 
Who  gives  the  fox  his  burrow  will  give  my 

bird  her  nest. 

Come,  come,  with  her  mother,  come ! 
Home,  home,  find  my  baby's  home !  " 

The  guardian  stars  above  the  trees  their  loving 

vigil  keep ; 
The  cricket  sings  her  lullaby,  the  whippoorwill 

his  cheer. 
The  father  knows  his  Father's  arms  are  round 

them  as  they  sleep ; 

The    mother    knows   that   in    His    arms   her 
darling  need  not  fear. 


BALLADS  AND   HISTORY.  43 

"  Home,  home,  my  baby's  home  is  here  ; 

With   God   we   seek,   with  God  we  find  the 

place  for  baby's  rest. 
Hist,  my  child,  list,  my  child;  angels  guard  us 

here. 
The  God  of  heaven  is  here  to  make  and  keep 

my  birdie's  nest. 
Home,  home,  here 's  my  baby's  home  !  " 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  PICTURE-GALLERY. 

[WRITTEN  WHEN  THE  OLD  SOUTH  MEETING-HOUSE 
OF  BOSTON  WAS  DEDICATED  TO  PATRIOTISM  AND 
HISTORY.] 

To  hide  the  time-stains  on  our  wall, 
Let  every  tattered  banner  fall ! 
The  Bourbon  lilies,  green  and  old, 
That  flaunted  once  in  burnished  gold; 
The  oriflamme  of  France  that  fell 
That  day  when  sunburned  Pepperell 
His  shotted  salvos  fired  so  well, 
The  Fleur  de  Lys  trailed  sulky  down, 
And  Louisburg  was  George's  town. 
The  Bourbon  yields  it  in  despair 
To  Saxon  arm  and  Pilgrim  prayer. 

Hang  there  the  Lion  and  the  Tower, 
The  trophies  of  an  earlier  hour, 
Pale  emblems  of  Castilian  pride, 
That  shrouded  Winslow  when  he  died 
Beneath  Jamaica's  palm. 


BALLADS   AND   HISTORY.  45 

Hang  there,  and  there,  the  dusty  rags 
Which  once  were  jaunty  battle  flags, 
And  for  a  week,  in  triumph  vain, 
Gay  flaunted  over  blue  Champlain, 
Gayly  had  circled  half  the  world, 
Until  they  drooped,  disgraced  and  furled, 
That  day  the  Hampshire  line 
Stood  to  its  arms  at  dress  parade, 
Beneath  the  Stars  and  Stripes  arrayed, 

And  Massachusetts  Pine, 
To  see  the  great  atonement  made 
By  Riedesel  and  Burgoyne. 

Eagles  which  Caesar's  hand  had  fed, 
Banners  which  Charlemagne  had  led, 

A  thousand  years  before, 
A  dozing  empire  meanly  gave 
To  be  the  eagles  of  a  slave, 
And  let  the  Hessian  Landgrave  wave 

Those  banners  on  our  shore. 
The  Hessian  Landgrave  basely  sold 
Eagle  and  flag  for  George's  gold ; 

And  in  the  storm  of  war, 
In  crash  of  battle,  thick  and  dark, 
Beneath  the  rifle-shot  of  Stark, 


46  FOR   FIFTY  YEARS. 

The  war-worn  staff,  the  crest  of  gold, 

The  scutcheon  proud  and  storied  fold, 

In  surges  of  defeat  were  rolled. 

So  even  Roman  banners  fall, 

To  screen  the  time-stains  on  our  wall ! 

Beneath  the  war-flags'  faded  fold 
I  see  our  sovereigns  of  old 

On  magic  canvas  there. 
The  tired  face  of  "  baby  Charles  " 
Looks  sadly  down  from  Pilgrim  walls, 

Half  pride  and  half  despair, 
Doubtful  to  flatter  or  to  strike, 

To  cozen  or  to  dare. 
His  steel-clad  charger  he  bestrides 
As  if  to  smite  the  Ironsides, 
When  Rupert  with  his  squadron  rides ; 
Yet  such  his  gloomy  brow  and  eye, 
You  wonder  if  he  will  not  try 
Once  more  the  magic  of  a  lie 

To  lift  him  from  his  care. 

Hold  still  your  truncheon  !     If  it  moves, 
The  ire  of  Cromwell's  rage  it  braves ! 
For  the  next  picture  shows 


BALLADS  AND   HISTORY.  47 

The  grim  Protector  on  his  steed, 
Ready  to  pray,  to  strike,  to  lead,  — 
Dare  all  for  England,  which  he  saves, 
New  England,  which  he  loves. 

Vandyck  drew  Charles.     T  is  Kneller  there 
Has  pictured  a  more  peaceful  pair; 
There  Orange  gives  his  last  command, 
The  charter  gives  to  Mather's  hand ; 
And  blooming  there,  the  queenly  she, 
Who  takes  "  now  counsel,  and  now  tea," 
Confounding  Blenheim  and  Bohea, 
Careless  of  war's  alarm. 

Yet  as  of  old,  the  virgin  Queen, 
When  armed  for  victory,  might  press 
The  smoky  firelock  of  "  Brown  Bess," 
So  Anna,  in  a  fond  caress, 
Rests  on  a  black  "  Queen's  Arm." 

Beneath  those  forms  another  band, 
Silent  but  eloquent,  shall  stand. 
There  is  no  uttered  voice  nor  speech 
As  still  of  liberty  they  teach  ; 


48  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

No  language  and  no  sound  is  heard, 
Yet  still  the  everlasting  word 
Goes  forth  to  thrill  the  land. 
Story  and  Greenough  shall  compel 
The  silent  marble  forms  to  tell 
The  lesson  that  they  told  so  well, 

Lesson  of  Fate  and  Awe,  — 
Franklin  still  point  the  common  place 

Of  Liberty  and  Law ; 
Adams  shall  look  in  Otis'  face, 
Blazing  with  Freedom's  soul ; 
And  Molyneux  see  Hancock  trace 
The  fatal  word  which  frees  a  race, 
There,  in  New  England's  well-earned  place, 

The  head  of  Freedom's  roll. 

These  are  not  all.     The  past  is  gone, 
But  other  victories  shall  be  won, 
For  which  the  time-worn  tale  we  read 
Is  but  the  sowing  of  the  seed. 
The  harvest  shall  be  gathered  when 
Our  children's  children  meet  again 

Upon  this  time-worn  floor ; 
When  ruddy  drops  flush  living  cheek, 
And  tribunes  of  the  people  speak 


BALLADS   AND   HISTORY.  49 

As  living  man  can  speak  to  living  men ; 
When  future  Adamses  conspire, 
When  other  Danas  feed  the  fire, 
Each  grandson  worthy  of  his  sire ; 
When  other  Phillipses  shall  tell 
Again  the  tale  he  tells  so  well ; 
When  other  Minots  shall  record 
The  victories  of  some  other  Ward, 
And  other  Prescotts  tell  the  story 
Of  other  Warrens'  death  and  glory ; 
When,  in  some  crisis  of  the  land, 
Some  other  Quincy  takes  the  stand, 
To  teach,  to  quicken,  to  command,  — 

To  speak  with  prophet's  power 
Of  Liberty  and  Law  combined, 
Of  Justice  close  with  Mercy  joined, 
United  in  one  heart  and  mind ; 
That  talisman  of  victory  find 
In  which  our  laurels  all  are  twined,  — 

And  for  one  struggle  more 
Forget  those  things  which  lie  behind, 

And  reach  to  those  before. 


THE  THREE   ANNIVERSARIES. 

SHORT  is  the  day,  and  night  is  long; 

But  he  who  waits  for  day 
In  darkness   sits  not  quite  so  long, 

And  earlier  hails  the  twilight  gray,  — 
A  little  earlier  hails  the  ray 
That  drives  the  mists  of  night  away. 

So  was  this  land  cold,  dead,  and  drear, 

When  to  the  rock-bound  shore 
That  Pilgrim  band,  Christ-led,  drew  near, 
The  promise  of  a  new-born  year,  — 
Twilight,  which  shows  that  even  here 
The  sun  of  gladness  shall  appear, 
The  land  be  dark  no  more. 

So  was  the  world  dark,  drear,  and  wild, 
When  on  that  blessed  morn 

A  baby  on  his  mother  smiled. 

The  dawning  comes,  the  royal  child, 
The  Sun  of  life,  is  born. 


BALLADS   AND   HISTORY.  51 

The  lengthening  days  shall  longer  grow, 

Till  summer  rules  the  land  ; 
From  Pilgrim  rills  full  rivers  flow,  — 

Roll  stronger  and  more  grand. 
So,  Father,  grant  that  year  by  year 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness  more  clear 
To  our  awaiting  hearts  appear, 
And  from  his  doubtful  East  arise 
The  noonday  Monarch  of  the  skies,  — 
Till  darkness  from  the  nations  flies ; 
Till  all  know  him  as  they  are  known, 
Till  all  the  earth  be  all  his  own. 

DECEMBER  25,  1847. 


THE   STORY   OF  A   DORY. 

IF  you  will  look  into  my  garden 
Some  autumn,  you  '11  find  your  reward  in 
The  sight  of  a  flower-decked  dory, 
Of  which  I  will  now  tell  the  story. 

This  dory  was  built  on  the  plan 
Approved  by  a  sea-faring  man ; 
She  was  built  on  the  shore  of  Cape  Ann. 

At  first  she  was  painted  dark  green, 
And  indeed  was  the  finest  machine 
Of  her  species  that  ever  was  seen. 

Her  qualities  first  were  essayed  in 
A  voyage  she  made  for  Menhaden, 
From  which  she  returned  deeply  laden. 

There  were  bushels  on  bushels  galore ; 
And  the  people  who  stood  on  the  shore 
Declared  they  had  never  seen  more. 


BALLADS  AND  HISTORY.  53 

One  time  she  was  out  with  Luke  Foster, 
So  long  that  the  people  of  Gloucester 
Were  sure  that  the  dory  was  lost,  or 
At  least  would  be  seen  there  no  more. 

But  the  dory  was  really  all  right, 
And  appeared  full  of  fish  before  night. 
The  people  rejoiced  at  the  sight, 
And  praised  her  as  never  before. 

You  should  see  how  Dan  Ober  set  sail, 

Before  a  sou-sou-western  gale, 

And  never  he  needed  a  pail, 

For  there  was  not  a  spoonful  to  bail. 

So  well  did  the  dory  behave, 
And  so  lightly  spring  over  the  wave, 
That  if  Ober's  lips  were  not  mute,  he 
Would  say  that  this  vision  of  beauty 
Exulted  in  doing  her  duty. 

Dan  Foster  the  business  plied, 

And  always  brought  home  to  his  bride 

A  boatful  of  fish  on  each  tide. 


54  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

Dan  Foster's  twin  brother,  he  cried 
Fresh  haddock  and  cod  far  and  wide ; 
The  neighborhood  all  were  supplied, 
And  the  country  on  every  side. 

And  now  is  the  story  all  told, 

For  the  dory  which  once  was  so  bold 

Grew  timorous  as  she  grew  old. 

She  lay  in  a  faint  on  the  shore, 

Did  not  go  to  sea  as  before, 

And  grew  dry  and  leaked  more  and  more. 

And  forgetting  the  scenes  she  had  been  to, 
When  Dan  Foster  had  died,  as  all  men  do, 
The  dory  was  sold  at  a  vendue. 

The  people  who  sold  her,  with  powers 
From  Dan  Foster's  will,  made  her  ours; 
And  now,  every  autumn  of  showers, 
This  oldest  of  dories  embowers 
With  semi-tropical  flowers. 

The  colors  are  scarlet  and  gory, 
But  peaceful,  for  all  that,  the  story, 
Of  this  autumn  decline  of  the  dory, 
Which  floats  all  its  banners  of  glory. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  THE   BELL. 

THREE  gallant  knights  ride  down  the  road,  — 

They  use  nor  spur  nor  rein; 
In  laugh  and  jest  they  little  bode 
That  on  this  way  their  steeds  have  trod 

They  turn  not  back  again. 

They  laugh  and  chat  along  the  way, 

These  noble  lords  of  Spain,  — 
No  haste  to  go,  no  care  to  stay, 
A  dusty  road,  a  sunny  day; 
And  little  heed  the  three  that  they 

Will  ne'er  go  back  again. 

"  Groom,  take  this  horse  ;  Boy,  feed  him  well !  " 

Ah,  me,  a  caution  vain ! 
Yet  not  one  warning  voice  to  tell 
How  ends  this  Council  of  the  Bell, 
How  each  man  falls  beneath  the  spell, 

And  goes  not  back  again ! 


56  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

A  flashing  axe,  a  headsman's  sword, 

Three  falling  trunks,  and  then, 
With  never  prayer  or  shriving  word, 
Lies  stark  in  death  each  laughing  lord, 
And  none  goes  back  again. 

HUESCA,  ARRAGON, 
June,  1882. 


II. 

COLLEGE    VERSES. 


COLLEGE    VERSES. 


FROM  "CLASS   POEM,"     1839. 

IF    they    scribble    in    ballads,     their    young 

Lochinvar 
Shall  boast  of  no  steed  but  his  steam-rushing 

car,  — 
Save  his  high  pressure  engine,  companions  have 

none, 

As  he  rides  all  unarmed,  as  he  rides  all  alone. 
And   though   no   such   change   will   e'er   come 

upon  love, 

Which  is  fixed  upon  bases  which  never  can  move ; 
Though  it  flow  like  the  Solway,  and  ebb  like  its 

tide, 
As  it  has  through  all   ages,   since   Eve  was   a 

bride ; 
Though  one  touch  to  the  hand  and  one  word 

in  the  ear 
Shall  ever  be  proof  an  elopement  is  near,  — 


60  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

To  what  a  strange  seat  his  fair  lady  he  '11  swing ! 
How  quick  to  the  safety-valve  after  her  spring! 
And  his  cry,  "  She  is  won,  and  no  turnpike  can 

bar; 
They  Ve   good   boilers  that   follow  the    young 

Lochinvar." 

Heaven  shield  them  from  trying,  as  thus  they 

rush  on, 
To  swim  the  Eske    river,   where  ford   there   is 

none; 
Though    matchless    we    own    them    for    swift 

locomoting, 

These  iron-built  horses  are  not  fit  for  floating. 
Yet  the  poet  might  hint  'twas  in  Eske's  surges 

drowned, 

Why  fair  Ellen  of  Netherby  never  was  found ; 
And    if    for    denouement    more    sad   he    were 

faulted, 
Let    his    boiler    collapse,    and    his    lovers    be 

scalded. 

[There  is  no  reason  for  printing  these  lines,  but  that  they 
mark  the  curiosity  which  belonged  to  the  loco 
motive  for  many  years  after  the  success  of  the 
"Rocket,"  in  1829.] 


A  SONG   FOR  THE   PHI    BETA   KAPPA 
DINNER    OF    1839. 

(TO   BE   SUNG   TO   "JESSIE   OF    DUMBLANE.") 

WHEN  green-eyed  Minerva  asked  Paris  to  serve 

her, 
And   give    her   the  apple  gift   offered   by 

Strife, 

All  other  gifts  scorning,  she  gave  him  a  warning, 
And  bade  him  make  wisdom  his  pilot  thro' 
life. 

But  the  little  god  Cupid  this  lesson  thought  stupid, 
And  so  he  convinced  the  unfortunate  boy ; 
He  sought   after    pleasure,  —  refused    her   the 

treasure ; 

And  that  shake  of  his  head  was  the  ruin  of 
Troy. 

Some  hundred  years  after  this  fatal  disaster 
The  Greek  Epicurus  established  his  fame ; 

He  showed  what  a  blunder  poor  Paris  was  under, 
For  wisdom  and  pleasure  were  one  and  the 
same. 


62  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

And  even  in  this  time  we  think  pleasure  wisdom, 
Whatever  the  Alford  Professor  may  say ; 

We  '11  applaud  him  next  week  if  he  "  rows  up  the 

Greek," 
But  we  own  ourselves  Epicureans  to-day. 

With   old    friends    beside   us,    let   old   wisdom 

guide  us, — 

Let  pleasure  be  wisdom,  at  least  for  a  day ; 
With  this  Kvftepvrfrrjs  our  band  of  Phi  Beta's 
Will  once  in  a  twelvemonth  laugh  sorrow 
away. 


1864. 

AT  THE  TWENTY-FIFTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE 
CLASS  OF  1839. 


SHALL  the  first  strain  upon  the  lyre  unused 

Speak  as  of  old, 

When  oft  it  told 

Of  blush  and  sigh, 

Of  hope  and  fear 

And  smile  and  tear, 

Of  those  most  beautiful  in  boyhood's  eye? 
Shall  it  sing  her,  the  queen  of  camps  and  groves, 

Sing  of  our  loves? 

So  let  it  sing  again ; 

Surely  as  men, 

In  the  refrain 

Of  that  eternal  strain, 

We  can  sound  chords  of  which  we  knew  not 
then! 


64  FOR   FIFTY  YEARS. 

II. 

Or  shall  the  new  string  on  the  rusty  lyre 

Weep  with  our  woes, — 
Speak  in  memoriam  of  our  loved  and  lost, 
Of  bleeding  steps  of  life  and  what  they  cost, 
Of  wreaths  that  crumbled  when  we  prized  them 

most  — 

Of  yawning  gulfs  where  sunk  our  tempest-tost? 
Such  songs  as  those 
In  minor  strain 
We  can  attune  as  men 

With  such  a  wail  of  hearts  that  feel  real  woes 
As  Byron  school-boys'  anguish  never  knows ! 

III. 

Or  shall  we  sing  of  Hope,  —  of  kingdoms  yet 

to  win, 
Of  worlds  released  from  pain  and  saved  from  sin, 

Of  good  times  come  again? 
That  vision  seen  beneath  the  rainbow  arch, 
Of  blessed  futures  in  their  Godward  march, 

We  see  as  men 

As  never  then. 


COLLEGE  VERSES.  65 

That  vision  brightens,  and  that  future  glows  ; 
Who  knows  his  failures,  —  what  he  hopes  for 
knows ! 

IV. 

Does  Memory  sing? 

Some  silver  wedding  bid  the  bard  rehearse,  — 

Life's   lengthening    legend   in   his   lengthening 
verse ; 

Call  on  Mnemosyne  soft-tongued 

To  tell  the  tale  each  day  prolonged,  — 

With  all  her  drowsy  grace 

Its  picture  growing  dim  to  trace. 

Is  that  the  song  inspires 
Our  new  awakened  lyres? 

We  men  can  sing  —  as  never  years  ago ! 

We  men  have  something  to  remember  now  ! 

v. 

Seven-stringed  our  lyre  ;  it  beat  with  love  of  old, 

With  love  beats  now ! 
Grief,  hope  and  victory,  too,  —  their  tale  it  told ; 

It  tells  it  now ! 

5 


66  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

Of  brooding  memory  the  song  it  sings, 
For  patriot  war  the  bloody  laurel  brings, 

Nor  lacks  the  while 

This  joyous  smile 

Of  happy  home, 

Past  —  and  to  come. 

Such  chords,  new  tuned,  we  strike  as  men,  — 
Chords  better  tuned  and  better  struck  than  then. 

VI. 

And  if  our  poet  rise 

To  the  one  theme  which  tries 

All  high  emprise 

Beneath  —  beyond  the  skies,  — 
If  to  his  Lyre  he  add  the  octave  chord, 
Which  chimes  with  each  to  sing   the  Eternal 

Word 
And  sound  the  praise  of  the  Eternal  God,  — 

With  every  year 

That  comes  and  goes, 

With  every  tear 

That  fills  and  flows, 

He  knows  that  God  as  never  known  before  ; 
As  he  floats  nearer  to  the  Eternal  shore 


COLLEGE  VERSES.  6/ 

His  love  he  sings,  and  scans  his  purpose,  too, 
With  joy  the  prating  schoolboy  never  knew. 

VII. 

Aye  as  we  live,  Life's  song  is  better  sung, 
Aye  as  we  live,  Life's  lyre  more  tuneful  strung,  — 
The  blind  receive  their  sight,  the  dumb  their 

tongue. 
Aye  as  he   grows,  God's  child   becomes  more 

young ! 


ALMA   MATER'S    ROLL. 
AT  THE  PHI  BETA  KAPPA  DINNER  OF  1875.* 

I  SAW  her  scan  her  sacred  scroll, — 
I  saw  her  read  her  record  roll 
Of  men  who  wrought  to  win  the  right, 
Of  men  who  fought  and  died  in  fight; 
When  now  a  hundred  years  by-gone 
The  day  she  welcomed  Washington, 
She  showed  to  him  her  boys  and  men, 
And  told  him  of  their  duty  then. 

"  Here  are  the  beardless  boys  I  sent, 
And  whispered  to  them  my  intent 
To  free  a  struggling  continent. 

"  The  marks  upon  this  scroll  will  show 
Their  words  a  hundred  years  ago. 

*  Many  of  the  gentlemen  named  in  the  last  verse  but 
one  were  present  at  the  dinner. 


COLLEGE  VERSES.  69 

"  Otis  ! "     "  No  lesser  death  was  given 

To  him  than  by  a  bolt  from  heaven !  " 

"  Quincy  !  "     "  He  died  before  he  heard 

The  echo  of  his  thunder  word." 

"  And  these  were  stripling  lads  whom  I 

Sent  out  to  speak  a  nation's  cry, 

In  '  glittering  generality ' 

Of  living  words  that  cannot  die : 

"  John  Hancock  !"    "Here."    "  John  Adams  !" 

"  Here." 

"  Paine,  Gerry,  Hooper,  Williams  !  "     "  Here." 
"  My  Narragansett  Ellery  !  "     "  Here." 
"  Sam  Adams,  first  of  freemen  !  "     "  Here." 
"  My  beardless  boys,  my  graybeard  men, 
Summoned  to  take  the  fatal  pen 
Which  gave  eternal  rights  to  men,  — 
All  present,  or  accounted  for." 

I  saw  her  scan  again  the  scroll,  — 
I  heard  her  read  again  the  roll ; 
I  heard  her  name  her  soldier  son, 
Ward,  called  from  home  by  Lexington. 
He  smiled  and  laid  his  baton  down, 
Proud  to  be  next  to  Washington ! 


70  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

He  called  her  list  of  boys  and  men 

Who  served  her  for  her  battles  then. 

From  North  to  South,  from  East  to  West, 

He  named  her  bravest  and  her  best, 

From  distant  fort,  from  bivouac  near : 

"  Brooks,  Eustis,  Cobb,  and  Thacher  !  "    "  Here." 

Name  after  name,  with  quick  reply, 

As  twitched  his  lip  and  flashed  his  eye ; 

But  then  he  choked  and  bowed  his  head,  — 

"Warren  at  Bunker  Hill  lies  dead." 

The  roll  was  closed ;    he  only  said, 
"  All  present,  or  accounted  for." 

That  scroll  is  stained  with  time  and  dust; 
They  were  not  faithless  to  their  trust. 
"  If  those  days  come  again,  —  if  I 
Call  on  the  grandsons, — what  reply? 
What  deed  of  courage  new  display 
These  fresher  parchments  of  to-day?" 

I  saw  her  take  the  newer  scroll,  — 
I  heard  her  read  the  whiter  roll ; 
And  as  the  answers  came,  the  while 
Our  mother  nodded  with  a  smile : 


COLLEGE  VERSES.  /I 

11  Charles   Adams  !  "     "  Here."     "  George   Ban 
croft  !  "     "  Here." 
"  The  Hoars  !  "     "  Both  here."     "  Dick  Dana  !" 

"  Here." 

"  Wadsworth  !  "     "  He  died  at  duty's  call." 
"  Webster  !  "     "  He  fell  as  brave  men  fall." 
"  Everett !  "     "  Struck  down  in  Faneuil  Hall." 
"  Sumner  !  "     "A  nation  bears  his  pall." 
"  Shaw,  Abbott,  Lowell,  Savage  !  "     "All 
Died  there,  —  to  live  on  yonder  wall !  " 
"  Come  East,  come  West,  come  far,  come  near, — 
Lee,  Bartlett,  Davis,  Devens  !  "     "  Here." 
"All  present,  or  accounted  for." 

Boys,  heed  the  omen  !     Let  the  scroll 
Fill  as  it  may  as  years  unroll ; 
But  when  again  she  calls  her  youth 
To  serve  her  in  the  ranks  of  Truth, 
May  she  find  all  one  heart,  one  soul,  — 
At  home  or  on  some  distant  shore, 
"All  present,  or  accounted  for !  " 


HARVARD   AND  YALE. 

AT    AN    ALPHA    DELTA    DINNER    AT    MIDDLETOWN, 
CONNECTICUT,  MAY,   1878. 

WHEN  Harvard  woke  in  woodland  wild, 
Our  dear  New  England's  first-born  child 

(Before  her  she  had  nary  one), 
The  damsel  tried  to  break  away ; 
Indeed  she  proved  a  little  gay, 

Or  Latitudinarian. 

The  dear  old  mother  did  not  grout; 

She  never  thought  to  scold  or  spite  her  ; 
The  only  thing  she  cared  about 
Was  that  when  sister  Yale  came  out, 

She  should  be  laced  a  little  tighter. 

The  girls  themselves  no  difference  knew,  — 
They  laughed  and  joked,  and  quarrelled 
never. 

As  loving  sisters  both  they  grew ; 

And  with  each  year's  Commencement  new, 

They  twine  the  crimson  with  the  blue, 

Kiss  and  make  friends,  and  will  forever. 


FOR  FORTY  YEARS. 
AT  THE  ALPHA  DELTA  PHI  CONVENTION,  MAY  8,  1879. 

FOR  Forty  Years 
Of  mingled  hopes  and  fears, — 
Of  tales  of  battle,  told  with  bated  breath, 
Of  peace,  returning  with  her  olive  wreath, 
Of  love,  of  joy,  of  sorrow,  and  of  death ! 

For  suns  will  sink,  and  twilights  melt  away, 
Cool  evenings  hurry  on,  nor  midnight  stay, 
But  at  the  summons  of  the  morn  e'en  night 

grows  gray, 
Stars  fade  from  sight,  and  lo,  the  light,  the  day  ! 

Such  change  from  day  to  night, 

From  dark  to  light, 

Fills  up  the  record  of  my  forty  years. 

For  Forty  Years 
You  boys  look  forward  on  another  page. 


74  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

The  hall  is  dressed;  the  candles  are  not  lit; 
The  page  is  white,  —  the  annals  are  not  writ ; 
The  stage  is  set,  the  curtain  pulled  away, 
The  actors  dressed  and  ready  for  the  play, 
And  I  for  chorus  stand  ; 

Is  it  for  me 

To  say  if  it  be  farce  or  tragedy? 
What  shall  the  dancers  dance,  or  what  the  rage 
That  heaves  the  history  of  the  stormy  age, 
For  Forty  Years? 

Not  mine  !     For  Forty  Years 

The  stage  is  all  your  own ;   the  page  is  yours, 

Of  storm  or  peace, 

Of  work  or  ease, 
Of  winter  tempests  or  of  summer  showers; 

Not  mine  to  tell 

What  hand  shall  work  for  woe,  or  what  work 
well! 

Only  this  oracle  for  gathering  strife, 
Only  this  lesson  from  a  happy  life ; 

Who  lives  and  works  for  Love 
The  miracle  shall  prove ; 


COLLEGE  VERSES.  75 

The  Eternal  Power  is  his,  whate'er  he  do ; 
Weakness  is  strength  for  him,  and  old  things 

are  made  new, 

As  he  mounts  higher  on  these  rounds  of  time, 
His  grasp  more  sure,  his  foot   more  quick  to 

climb. 

Faster  the  race  is  run, 

As  one  by  one 
Our  selfish  handicaps  away  we  fling. 

Love  works  the  miracle  of  youth,  — 

Love  speaks  the  oracle  of  truth ; 

And  they  who  prove 

The  strength  of  love 
Grow  younger  and  more  young 
For  Forty  Years ! 


THE   CALL  TO   DINNER. 

AT  THE  PHI  BETA  KAPPA  MEETING  OF  1884,  — AFTER 
MR.  BAYARD'S  ADDRESS. 

[There  was  no  poet.      I  was  presiding,  and  invited  the  assembly  to 
dinner  in  these  words.] 

WHEN  Nestor  ended,  'mid  the  loud  acclaim, 

As  echoing  plaudits  sounded  down  the  shore, 

If  from  the  listening  ranks  some  stripling  came, 

And  like  some  Oliver,  demanded  more, 

The  graver  chieftains  of  maturer  age 

Half  heard  and  half  deferred  his  bold  request; 

They  bade  each  beardless  youth,  each   hoary 

sage, 
Wait  for  the  sequel  till  they  'd  done  the  feast. 

For  down  the  shore,  by  smoke  and  vapor  hid, 
The    cooks  were   basting  while  the  spits  went 

round, 

With  savory  porker  or  with  savory  kid, 
While  bubbling  gravy  wasted  on  the  ground. 


COLLEGE  VERSES.  77 

Phi  Beta  follows  in  this  classic  way, 
Postpones  the  sequel  of  the  charmed  discourse, 
At  groaning  tables  breaks  the  passing  day, 
And  mingles  wisdom  with  the  second  course. 

For  gamesome  kid,  we  roast  the  summer  lamb ; 
For  heating  wines  we  drink  the  cooling  ice; 
Recall  their  boar's  meat  in  our  savory  ham ; 
Then  quicken  memories,  and  exchange  advice,— 
Tell  the  old  stories  of  forgotten  fields, 
And  try  the  fortunes  which  the  future  yields. 

To  rites  like  these,  brethren,  assemble  all, — 
Leaving  these  seats,  repair  to  yonder  hall, 
And  form  procession  at  the  marshal's  call. 


AT    COMMENCEMENT    DINNER, 

JULY,   1889. 

IT  is  not  day,  and  yet  the  night  is  gone. 

Look  eastward,  —  see !    that  is   not  black, 

but  gray,  — 
Cold  gray,  hard  gray,  dark  gray;   and  yet  if  one 

Watches  it,  cold  and  hard,  he  hopes  for  day. 
Whiter  and  whiter,  —  see,  the  night  is  done  ! 

The   stars    are   frightened,   and    they   pale 

away. 

Color  that —      Color?     Yes,  'neath  Procyon. 
See  the  soft  tinge,  as  new  as  it  is  old, 
That  nameless  yellow  of  which  Homer  told, 
And  then,  as  those  weird  curtains  are  unrolled, 
Cloud  mixed  with  cloud,  fold    tangled  in  with 

fold, 

That  "  faint,  peculiar  tint  of  yellow  green," 
And  there,  the  scarlet  of  the  rays  between,  — 
Scarlet  —  no,  crimson,  flashing  into  gold, 
One  sea  of  gold,  and  then  the  Sun !  the  Sun ! 


III. 

THE     WAR. 


THE     WAR. 


TAKE  THE   LOAN. 

COME,  freemen  of  the  land, 
Come  meet  the  great  demand, 
True  heart  and  open  hand, — 

Take  the  loan ! 

For  the  hopes  the  prophets  saw, 
For  the  swords  your  brothers  draw, 
For  liberty  and  law, 

Take  the  loan ! 

Ye  ladies  of  the  land, 

As  ye  love  the  gallant  band 

Who  have  drawn  a  soldier's  brand, 

Take  the  loan ! 

Who  would  bring  them  what  she  could, 
Who  would  give  the  soldier  food, 
Who  would  staunch  her  brothers'  blood, 

Take  the  loan ! 
6 


82  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

All  who  saw  our  hosts  pass  by, 
All  who  joined  the  parting  cry, 
When  we  bade  them  do  or  die, 

Take  the  loan ! 

As  ye  wished  their  triumph  then, 
As  ye  hope  to  meet  again, 
And  to  meet  their  gaze  like  men, 

Take  the  loan  ! 

Who  would  press  the  great  appeal 
Of  our  ranks  of  serried  steel, 
Put  your  shoulders  to  the  wheel, 

Take  the  loan ! 

That  our  prayers  in  truth  may  rise, 
Which  we  press  with  streaming  eyes 
On  the  Lord  of  earth  and  skies, 

Take  the  loan ! 

MAY,  1861. 


OLD  FANEUIL   HALL. 

COME,  soldiers,  join  a  Yankee  song, 
And  cheer  us,  as  we  march  along, 
With  Yankee  voices,  full  and  strong, — 

Join  in  chorus  all ; 
Our  Yankee  notions  here  we  bring, 
Our  Yankee  chorus  here  we  sing, 
To  make  the  Dixie  forest  ring 

With  OLD  FANEUIL  HALL  ! 

When  first  our  fathers  made  us  free, 
When  old  King  George  first  taxed  the  tea, 
They  swore  they  would  not  bend  the  knee, 

But  armed  them  one  and  all ! 
In  days  like  those  the  chosen  spot 
To  keep  the  hissing  water  hot, 
To  steep  the  tea  leaves  in  the  pot, 

Was  OLD  FANEUIL  HALL  ! 

So  when,  to  steal  our  tea  and  toast, 
At  Sumter  first  the  rebel  host 


84  FOR   FIFTY  YEARS. 

Prepared  to  march  along  the  coast, 

At  Jeff  Davis'  call, 
He  stood  on  Sumter's  tattered  flag, 
To  cheer  them  with  the  game  of  brag, 
And  bade  them  fly  his  Rebel  Rag 

On  OLD  FANEUIL  HALL  ! 

But  war 's  a  game  that  two  can  play ; 
They  waked  us  up  that  very  day, 
And  bade  the  Yankees  come  away 

Down  South,  at  Abram's  call ! 
And  so  I  learned  my  facings  right, 
And  so  I  packed  my  knapsack  tight, 
And  then  I  spent  the  parting  night 

In  OLD  FANEUIL  HALL! 

And  on  that  day  which  draws  so  nigh, 
When  rebel  ranks  our  steel  shall  try, — 
When  sounds  at  last  the  closing  cry 

"  Charge  bayonets  all !  " 
The  Yankee  shouts  from  far  and  near, 
Which  broken  ranks  in  flying  hear, 
Shall  be  a  rousing  Northern  cheer 

From  OLD  FANEUIL  HALL  ! 

1862. 


PUT  IT  THROUGH ! 

COME,  Freemen  of  the  land, 
Come,  meet  the  last  demand,  — 
Here 's  a  piece  of  work  in  hand ; 

Put  it  through  ! 
Here 's  a  log  across  the  way, 
We  have  stumbled  on  all  day ; 
Here 's  a  ploughshare  in  the  clay,  — 

Put  it  through  ! 

Here  's  a  country  that 's  half  free, 
And  it  waits  for  you  and  me 
To  say  what  its  fate  shall  be  ; 

Put  it  through ! 

While  one  traitor  thought  remains, 
While  one  spot  its  banner  stains, 
One  link  of  all  its  chains,  — 

Put  it  through ! 


86  FOR   FIFTY  YEARS. 

Hear  our  brothers  in  the  field, 

Steel  your  swords  as  theirs  are  steeled, 

Learn  to  wield  the  arms  they  wield,  — 

Put  it  through  ! 

Lock  the  shop  and  lock  the  store, 
And  chalk  this  upon  the  door,  — 
"  We  've  enlisted  for  the  war !  " 

Put  it  through ! 

For  the  birthrights  yet  unsold, 
For  the  history  yet  untold, 
For  the  future  yet  unrolled, 

Put  it  through  ! 

Lest  our  children  point  with  shame 
On  the  fathers'  dastard  fame, 
Who  gave  up  a  nation's  name, 

Put  it  through ! 

1864. 


THE    INTERNAL    REVENUE. 

[A  NEW  VERSION  OF  AN  OLD  SONG.] 

WHEN  Abraham  spends  without  measure, 

Sending  armies  and  navies  afar, 
Who  fills  up  the  chests  of  his  treasure, 

Who  tightens  the  sinews  of  war? 
Undaunted  by  danger  or  omen, 

'Tis  the  In-ter-nal  Revenue, 
That  flaunts  in  the  face  of  the  foeman 

The  flag  of  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue. 

Each  stamp  breaks  a  link  of  our  fetters, 

Breaks  chains  that  were  tight  round  our  necks, 

Hurrah  for  the  red  on  our  letters ! 
Hurrah  for  the  blue  on  our  checks ! 

Like  the  crimson  blood  of  our  bravest, 

Who  are  tracking  the  snow  wastes  through, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  sea  of  our  navies, 

Hurrah  for  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue ! 

1864. 


IV. 

TRANSLATIONS. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


A   CHORUS    FROM    IPHEGENIA   IN 
TAURIS. 

STROPHE. 

HALCYON,  O  Halcyon, 
Who  by  Pontus'  rocky  shore 
Singest  mournful  evermore, 
In  a  song  whose  tones  are  clear 
If  kindred  sorrow  lends  an  ear, 

Calling  for  thy  husband  lost, 
Brooding  on  the  sea,  — 

Wingless  halcyon  of  the  foam, 
I  can  grieve  with  thee. 

Grieving  for  the  home  I  love, 
Longing  for  Diana's  shrine.. 

Where  she  dwells  in  Cynthian  grove, 

Where  purple  fold  and  locks  of  gold 
Deck  her  form  divine  ; 


92  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

For  the  fragrant  Daphne's  flowers ; 
For  the  olive's  fruitage  sere, 
Precious  gift  of  loved  Latona, 
Mother  of  our  goddess  dear; 
For  the  consecrated  lake, 
Where  their  thirst  her  cygnets  slake, 
And  their  refuge  joyful  take 
And  their  paean  worship  make, 
Where  the  green  shore's  glad  echoes  ring, 
While  to  the  Muses  these  melodious  sing. 


ANTISTROPHE. 

Oh,  the  tears,  the  streams  of  tears 
Which  in  sorrow-torrents  fell 

When  they  forced  me  from  my  home, 

I  shall  aye  remember  well,  — 
When  the  precious  price  was  paid, 
When  the  oars  in  ocean  played, 
And  hostile  barks  the  captives  bore 
Seaward  to  this  barbarous  shore, 

Where  we  serve  Atrides'  child, 

Sad  priestess,  who  has  never  smiled 

In  this  altar-worship  wild. 


TRANSLATIONS.  93 

For  habit  does  not  teach  us 

In  our  sorrows  to  be  glad ; 
Their  misery  will  reach  us 

Through  what  time  our  lives  we  lead. 
This  heavy  fate  of  man  shall  never  end,  — 
Grief  with  his  pleasure  evermore  shall  blend. 

STROPHE    II. 
For  you,  our  honored  mistress, 

Shall  the  Argive's  fifty  oars 
Struggle  with  the  surge  of  ocean 
Till  you  see  your  native  shores. 
They  shall  flash  and  flash  again, 
To  the  merry  notes  of  Pan, 

While  softer  tones  of  Phoebus'  lyre 

Shall  hasten  to  an  end 
The  weary  days  which  bring  your  bark 

To  Attic  strand. 

I  linger  here  deserted,  —  woe  is  me, 
But  you  shall  cross  the  madly  surging  sea. 
The  halyards  high  your  sails  in  sky 

Broad  display, 

And  your  ship  before  the  tempest's  roar 
Flies  away. 


94  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

ANTISTROPHE    II. 

Oh  that  through  the  ethereal  course, 
Where  the  sun  his  radiance  pours, 
I  might  hasten  to  those  shores ! 
Oh  that,  wing-borne  o'er  the  foam, 
I  might  fly  to  my  home ! 
I  would  sing  in  chorus  there 
Where  the  virgin  goddess  fair, 

Of  happy  birth, 

Welcomes  throngs  who  eager  press, 
With  the  prayer  that  she  may  bless 

Them  on  the  earth, 
Where  at  the  sacred  shrine 

Of  Locks  of  Gold, 
Her  suitors  vie  with  gifts  divine, 

Rivals  bold, 

That  her  smiles  may  bless  the  prayer 
Which  in  reverence  they  bear 
To  Latona,  mother  dear; 
With  apparel  rich  and  rare 
Her  downy  cheek  and  golden  hair 
They  enfold. 

1843- 


FROM   HEINE. 

MIDNIGHT  rests  upon  the  city 

Through  whose  shaded  streets  I  go ; 
An  hour  ago  all  smiled  or  sorrowed; 

The  hour  is  past,  —  they  're  dreaming  now. 
Pleasure  like  a  flower  has  faded ; 

Drained  the  wine-cup's  sparkling  stream ; 
Griefs  fires,  like  the  sun,  are  shaded, 
That  the  weary  world  may  dream. 
Let  it  dream,  then  ! 
Let  it  dream ! 

All  my  haste  and  all  my  anger, 
Shivering,  broken,  fly  away, 
As  I  see  the  moon  in  slumber, 
Resting  from  her  strife  with  day. 
Light  as  whispers,  soft  as  starlight, 

Through  all  space  my  spirit  goes,  — 
Light  as  sound  and  still  as  starlight 
Visits  men  in  their  repose, 
In  the  secrets 
Of  their  dreams. 


96  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

Here  a  palace  stands  before  me; 
Ha  !  its  dreamer  flies  abroad  ! 
Craven,  careworn,  and  remorse-worn, 
See  him,  trembling,  seek  his  sword ! 
Hist !     In  flight  a  thousand  coursers 
Bear  him  from  his  throne  away,  — 
Ha !     He  falls  on  earth,  and  yawning 
She  engulfs  him  as  her  prey ! 
God  of  vengeance, 
Let  him  dream ! 

Everywhere  the  spirit  enters : 

Ope  we  here  the  prison  door,  — 
Germany,  thy  sons  are  fettered 
For  the  love  of  thee  they  bore  ! 
Here  the  captive  sleeps  forgetful ; 

Does  he  dream  of  freedom* now? 
Does  he  dream  of  battles  over, 
Victory's  garland  on  his  brow? 
God  of  Freedom, 
"Let  him  dream ! 

Yet  a  step,  and  here  the  cabin 

Of  the  tiller  of  the  soil. 
To  his  slumber  God  has  given 

Dreams  which  pay  for  daylight's  toil. 


TRANSLATIONS.  97 

Every  seed  which  Morpheus  scatters 

Gives  a  golden  harvest  birth,  — 
Fills  the  dreamer's  little  cottage 
With  the  treasures  of  the  earth. 
God,  who  carest  for  the  poor  man, 
Let  him  dream ! 

Here  I  pause  to  speak  my  blessing ! 

Dearest,  who  art  life  to  me, 
You  are  not  my  only  loved  one,  — 
Freedom  shares  my  heart  with  thee ! 
While  the  stainless  doves  of  promise 

To  your  cradle  blessings  bore, 
Round  me  in  my  baby  slumbers 

Pranced  mad  coursers  wild  for  war. 
While  I  dream  of  Freedom's  eagles, 

Of  the  bold,  unflinching  eye, 
Dearest,  in  more  peaceful  slumbers 
You  shall  watch  the  butterfly. 
God  of  love, 

Oh,  let  her  dream ! 

1843. 


NEPTUNE   DESCENDING. 

THERE  he  sat  high,  retired  from  the  seas; 

There  looked  with  pity  on  his  Grecians  beaten ; 

There  burned  with  rage  at  the  god-king  who 
slew  them. 

Then  he  rushed  forward  from  the  rugged  moun 
tains, 
Quickly  descending ; 

He  bent  the  forests  also  as  he  came  down, 

And  the  high  cliffs  shook  under  his  feet. 
Three  times  he  trod  upon  them, 

And  with  his  fourth  step  reached  the  home  he 
sought  for. 

There  was  his  palace,  in  the  deep  waters  of  the 

seas, 

Shining  with  gold,  and  builded  forever. 
There  he  yoked  him  his  swift- footed  horses ; 
Their   hoofs    are    brazen,  and  their  manes   are 

golden. 


TRANSLATIONS.  99 

He  binds  them  with  golden  thongs, 

He  seizes  his  golden  goad, 
He  mounts  upon  his  chariot  and  doth  fly,  — 
Yes  !  he  drives  them  forth  into  the  waves  ! 
And  the  whales  rise  under  him  from  the  depths, 

For  they  know  he  is  their  king ; 
And  the  glad  sea  is  divided  into  parts, 
That  his  steeds  may  fly  along  quickly ; 
And   his   brazen  axle  passes  dry  between  the 
waves. 

So,  bounding  fast,  they  bring  him  to  his 
Grecians. 


FROM   MARTIAL. 

COME  and  see  our  Spaniards,  Lician,  — 

Other  lands  shall  never  shame  us ; 
Come,  and  see  my  Bilbilis, 

Both  for  arms  and  horses  famous. 
Come  to  craggy  Vadavero  ; 

Come,  and  rest  you  in  the  groves 
Of  my  dainty,  sweet  Botrodes, 

Which  the  blithe  Pomona  loves. 
You  shall  bathe  in  warm  Congedus, 

Which  the  water-nymphs  environ, 
Or  in  freezing  Salo  cool  you, 

Where  we  cool  our  blades  of  iron. 
Beasts  and  birds  shall  make  your  dinner, 

As  you  cross  Vobisca's  meadows; 
Golden  Tagus  shall  refresh  you, 

Underneath  her  leafy  shadows. 


TRANSLATIONS.  IOI 

Are  you  thirsty?     Here  '3  Dircenna, 

And  Nemea's  melted' ariswis';'  '•.•'  :*'•', ;  '•'.  ;  /A, 
Or  when  fierce  December  rages, 

And  the  Gallic  north-wind  blows, 
We  '11  go  down  to  Tarragona, 

To  Laletania  repair,  — 
You  shall  shoot  the  does  with  arrows, 

You  shall  shoot  the  wild  boar  there  ; 
The  keeper  shall  bring  home  the  stag, 

And  you,  on  horseback,  course  the  hare. 

Far  away  be  squabbling  clients, 

Far  away  Liburnus,  too ; 
Not  a  dun  shall  break  your  slumbers, — 

You  shall  sleep  the  morning  through. 
You  shall  hear  no  woman  whimper, 

And  no  senator  debate  ; 
Other  men  to  bores  shall  listen, 

Others  hear  the  fools  dilate. 
You  know  how  to  taste  the  pleasure 

When  your  Sura  wins  his  meed  ; 
We  know  how  to  keep  the  treasure,  — 

How  to  live,  and  live  indeed. 


V. 
FROM   SERMONS  AND   THE  BIBLE. 


[I  took  from  Dr.  Doddridge  the  hint  of  putting  together  in  verses, 
at  the  end  of  a  sermon,  whatever  there  was  to  say. 

I  have  observed,  in  his  case,  that  the  verses  are  remembered, 
while  the  sermons  are  forgotten.  "  Therefore  speak  I  unto  them  in 
parables."  E.  E.  H.] 


FROM    SERMONS,    ETC. 


ALL  SOULS. 

WHAT    was   his   name?      I   do   not    know   his 

name. 

I  only  know  he  heard  God's  voice  and  came ; 
Brought  all  he  loved  across  the  sea, 
To  live  and  work  for  God  —  and  me ; 
Felled  the  ungracious  oak, 
With  horrid  toil 
Dragged  from  the  soil 
The     thrice-gnarled     roots     and    stubborn 

rock ; 

With  plenty  filled  the  haggard  mountain-side, 
And     when     his     work     was     done,     without 

memorial  died. 

No  blaring  trumpet  sounded  out  his  fame; 
He  lived,  he  died.     I  do  not  know  his  name. 

No  form  of  bronze  and  no  memorial  stones 
Show  me  the  place  where   lie  his  mouldering 
bones. 


IO6  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

Only  a  cheerful  city  stands, 

Builded  by  his  hardened  hands ; 

Only  ten  thousand  homes, 

Where  every  day 

The  cheerful  play 

Of  love  and  hope  and  courage  comes ; 
These  are  his  monuments,  and  these  alone,  — 
There  is  no  form  of  bronze  and  no  memorial 
stone. 

And  I? 

Is  there  some  desert  or  some  boundless  sea 
Where  thou,  great  God  of  angels,  wilt  send  me? 
Some  oak  for  me  to  rend,  some  sod 
For  me  to  break, 

Some  handful  of  thy  corn  to  take, 
And  scatter  far  afield, 
Till  it  in  turn  shall  yield 
Its  hundredfold 
Of  grains  of  gold, 

To  feed  the  happy  children  of  my  God?  — 
Show  me  the  desert,  Father,  or  the  sea. 
Is  it  thine  enterprise?     Great  God,  send  me ! 
And  though  this  body  lie  where  ocean  rolls, 
Father,  count  me  among  all  faithful  souls  ! 


"IN   LOVE   THE   LIFE   OF   HEAVEN 
WE   FOUND." 

I  WENT  to  learned  men  and  asked  the  way. 
The  learned  men  were  lost  among  their  books ; 
They  bade  me  stand  aside,  for  such  as  they 
For  such  as  me  had  neither  words  nor  looks. 

I  went  to  churches,  where  beyond  my  sight 
Priests  and  their  servants  served  great  mystery ; 
Their  waves  of  incense  filled  the  arches'  height, 
Their  waves  of  music  swelled  in  harmony. 
But  I  stood  all  alone :   and  he  and  he 
Who  led  the  great  procession  had  no  care  for 
me. 

I  left  their  church,  and  sought  the  street  instead, 
To  find  a  cripple  crouched  upon  the  ground. 
I  took  him  to  my  home  and  called  for  aid, 
From  palace  and  from  hovel,  all  around. 
His  wounds  we  tended  and  his  hunger  fed,  — 
And  lo !  in  love  the  life  of  heaven  we  found. 


UNDER  LAURELS   AND   MAPLES. 

A  THOUSAND  sounds,  and  each  a  joyful  sound : 
The  dragon  flies  are  darting  as  they  please ; 
The  humming-birds  are  humming  all  around; 
The  clethra  all  alive  with  buzzing  bees. 
Each  playful  leaf  its  separate  whisper  found, 
As  laughing  winds  went   rustling  through  the 

grove ; 

And  I  saw  thousands  of  such  sights  as  these, 
And  heard  a  thousand  sounds  of  joy  and  love. 

And  yet  so  dull  I  was,  I  did  not  know 

That  He  was  there  who  all  this  love  displayed  ; 

I  did  not  think  how  He  who  loved  us  so 

Shared  all  my  joy,  —  was  glad  that  I  was  glad  ; 

And  all  because  I  did  not  hear  the  word 

In  English  accents  say,  "  It  is  the  Lord." 


THE   CARAVAN. 

IN  the  rough  chapparal  I  slept  alone,  — 
No  roof  above  me,  and  the  stones  my  bed. 
Alone  I  waked  ;  no  man  had  heard  my  groan, 
No  whisper  cheered  me,  and  no  guide  had  led. 
I  wandered  right  and  left  away  from  man, 
And  when  the  day  was   done,  I  was  where  I 
began. 

One  morn  I  wakened  to  the  cheer  of  song 
Of  a  great  caravan  which  camped  hard  by; 
Shyly  I  joined  the  gay  and  happy  throng, 
Which  gladly  took   me  in  their  company. 
They   fed   my   hunger,    and    my   wounds   they 

bound; 
I  went  with  them,  and  Home  and  Heaven  were 

found. 


JEHOVAH    LIVETH. 

And  though  they  say,  The  Lord  liveth,  surely  they  swear 
falsely.  — Jeremiah  v.  2. 

PRIESTS  offer  Sheba's  incense  and  sweet  cane, 
Responding,  each  to  each,  "Jehovah  lives  !  " 
His  car  through  death  the  maddened  warrior 

drives, 

Raising  the  cry,  "Jehovah  lives!  "  again ; 
The  watchmen  at  the  gate  their  guard  maintain, 
"Jehovah  lives  !  "  the  countersign  each  gives. 
"Jehovah    lives!"    the    monarch    cries,    and 

strives 
With  such  a  spell  his  sceptre  to  sustain ! 

Yet  altar  priests  a  hireling  service  give, 
And  crimsoned  warriors  fight  for  fame  and  gold, 
The   guards  with   tales   of  peace   their  lords 

deceive, 

Whose  tyrant  hands  a  blood-stained  sceptre  hold. 
Why    with    such   lies     the    Lord    of    Nations 

grieve? 
In  your  false  hearts  Jehovah  does  not  live ! 


THE  LORD   OF  THE  VINEYARD. 

WHO  came  at  the  eleventh  hour, 

And  to  their  tasks  were  true, 
And  labored  each  as  he  had  power, 

Received  —  each  man  his  due. 

Who  came  when  day  was  breaking  bright, 

And  labored  all  day  through, 
Till  evening  melted  into  night, 

Received  —  each  man  his  due. 

These  looked  at  those,  those  looked  at  these, 
As  from  their  Lord  they  came ; 

The  dues  of  those,  the  dues  of  these, 
They  saw,  were  just  the  same. 

For  those  and  these  God's  children  are, 

Born  for  eternity ; 
Moments  of  time  could  not  compare 

With  lives  which  live  for  aye. 
And  souls  whose  every  hope  is  fixed  above 
Have    no    less     due     from     God    than    all    ; 
Father's  love. 


"AS  A  LITTLE   CHILD." 

"  THOU  must  be  born  again  !  "      O  thou  whose 

voice 

In  thunder  tones  would  visit  all  the  earth, 
In  lightning  words  would  preach  this  heavenly 

birth, 
So    men   may   weep   where    most   they   should 

rejoice, 
Go  thou  to  Bethlehem,  and  see  the  child 

New    born,    beneath    its    mother's    beaming 

smile,  — 

Look  at  thine  own,  and  ponder  there  the  while 
It  laughs,  for  life  alone  exulting  wild ! 

That  child,  it  has  no  memory  of  wrong; 
That  child,  it  fears  not  coming  days  of  woe ; 
That  child,  it  knows  not  that  days  come  and  go ; 
That  child  knows  not  that  hours  are  short  or 

long! 

Better  than  thou  to  careworn,  anxious  men, 
That  careless  child  will  preach  the  "  to  be  born 
again." 


ELI   AND   SAMUEL. 

THE  open  vision  ceases  from  the  land, 

God's  word  becomes  more  rare,  and  yet  more 

rare; 

Eli,  thine  eyes  wax  dim !  although  thou  stand 
In  God's  own  house,  thou  dost  not  see  him 

there ! 
He  speaks  !  list,  Eli,  to  the  precious  word  ! 

Alas,  that  word  is  not  for  such  as  thee ; 
Thy  sealed  ears  no  voice  of  God  have  heard,  — 

Thy  sluggard  eyes  no  open  vision  see. 
Wherefore  should  not   the    lamp  of  God  burn 

out? 

The  seer  of  God  is  blind,  and  nothing  sees ! 
Who   shall  light  Israel  through  her   clouds  of 

doubt? 
Whom   shall   God   call   upon    in   nights  like 

these? 
The  priest  dreams  still  of  earth.     Lo  !  God  has 

smiled, 

And  called  on  one  like  heaven,  —  a  ministering 
child. 


HAGAR  DEPARTED. 
GENESIS  xxi.  9-21. 

A  MOTHER  drives  a  mother  from  her  home ! 
With  tears  the  patriarch  sees  that    dawning 

day; 
With    tears    the    child    receives    an    outcast's 

doom; 
With  tears  his  mother  leads  him  far  away ! 

The  desert  welcomes  those  by  men  outcast; 

The  desert  sees  her  want  and  hears  her  cry, 
"  Beneath  this  parched  shade,  rest,  child,  thy 
last! 

Let  not  thy  mother  see  her  darling  die ! " 

Tears  are  but  dew-drops  at  gray  morning-tide, 
And  God  has  beams  of    love  to    dry  them 
all; 

Deserts  are  wide,  but  his  reign  far  more  wide 
Who  from  the  rock  can  bid  the  fountain  fall. 


SERMONS  AND  THE  BIBLE.  115 

"  Hagar,  arise  !  and  bid  thy  boy  arise  ! 

The  orphan's  God,  the  widow's  helper,  know  ! 
Tears  flow  not  vainly  from  a  mother's  eyes; 

See  at  thy  feet  the  living  waters  flow  ! 
The  desert  echoes  not  in  vain  his  cries ; 

God  hears  him  in  the  agony  of  woe,  — 

God  shall  be  with  him  wheresoe'er  he  go  ! " 


PALM   SUNDAY  AND   EASTER. 

A  ROADWAY  carpeted  with  palms  and  flowers, 
A  welcome  shouted  by  the  eager  throng ; 
A  thousand  voices  sing  in  David's  song, 

"  Messiah  comes,  the  nation's  king  and  ours !  " 

Shouts,  songs,  and  palms !     Yet,   as  the  week 

goes  by 

The  shouts  are  silenced  and  the  palms  are  dry, 
Till  that  last  day,  when  blackness    shrouds  the 

sky, 
And  those  who  shouted  then  to-day  cry  Crucify  ! 

A  cold,  dark  morning,  and  a  new-made  tomb ; 
Three   weeping   women    groping    through   the 

gloom, 

To  dress  a  corpse  from  which  the  life  has  gone. 
"  And  who  shall  roll  away  for  us  the  stone  ! " 
Only  one  streak  of  twilight,  cold  and  gray, 
Whitens  the  east  and  gives  a  hope  of  day ; 
But  see,  it  mounts  the  heavens  !      "  The  Sun  ! 

the  Sun  ! " 
See  for  the  world  Eternal  Life  begun. 


ON   A   YOUNG   PREACHER. 

[From  an  old  Hymn-Book.] 

PAUL,  ere  he  preached,  in  lonely  deserts  strayed ; 
Far  from  his  race  for  three  long  years  he  stayed. 
If  knowing  nothing  of  mankind  were  all, 
Our  new-fledged  preacher  were  a  second  Paul. 

MARCH.  1841. 


VI. 


SONNETS,  VALENTINES,  BIRTHDAYS, 
ETC.,  AND  SO  FORTH. 


Every  one  who  is  not  a  fool  has  written  two  sonnets. 

Spanish  proverb. 


SONNETS,    ETC. 


IF  Johnson,  Whitney,  and  John  Walker  let 
The  words  flow  freely  which  describe  my  lot, 
You  shall  discern  what  was  and  what  was  not, 

That  long-spun  night  I  drank  my  Mocha  late. 

Alas,  those  heated  grains  inoculate 

My  blood  with  fevered  fancies  of  the  cup, 
Because  fair  Chloe  bade  me  drink  it  up ! 

Not  so  your  fragrant  draught  of  chocolate, 
Though   all  day  long   I    saw   your    gracious 

smile, 

Which  gave  the  cup  with  Aztec  nectar  filled, 
Dull  brown  below,   all  crowned  with  foamy 

white ; 

When  day  retired,  and  all  men  ceased  from  toil, 
And  sought  sweet  sleep  and  her  refreshment 

mild, 
I  forgot  cup  and  all  and  slept  all  night ! 


"SEND   ME!" 

NOT  mine  to   mount  to  courts  where   seraphs 

sing, 

Or  glad  archangels  soar  on  outstretched  wing; 
Not  mine  in  union  with  celestial  choirs 
To  sound  heaven's  trump,  or  strike  the  gentler 

wires ; 

Not  mine  to  stand  enrolled  at  crystal  gates, 
Where  Michael  thunders  or  where  Uriel  waits. 
But  lesser  worlds  a  Father's  kindness  know ; 
Be  mine  some  simple  service  here  below,  — 
To  weep  with  those  who  weep,  their  joys   to 

share, 

Their  pain  to  solace,  or  their  burdens  bear; 
Some  widow  in  her  agony  to  meet; 
Some  exile  in  his  new-found  home  to  greet; 
To  serve  some  child  of  thine,  and  so  serve  thee, — 
Lo,  here  am  I !    To  such  a  work  send  me ! 


SONNET. 

TO  THE  SHIP  WHICH  BROUGHT  A  COPY  OF  MlCHAEL 
ANGELO'S  STATUE  OF  CHRIST  FROM  ITALY  TO 
AMERICA. 

BARK  after  bark  has  sunk  in  gales  like  these, 
Facing  the  jealous  West,  as  thou  dost  now. 
Still  thou  must  breast  each  wave,  nor  shun  the 

seas, 

Which  beetle  downward  on  thy  westward  prow. 
The  great  "  Christ-bearer  "  quailed  not:    he,  as 

thou, 

Left  Italy  to  seek  our  Western  shore ; 
And,  as  another  dove  another  olive  bore, 
Seeing  across  the  waste  another  promise-bow. 

Beat  westward  still !  beat  downward  every  wave  ! 
The  Christ  who  gave  our  New  World  to  the  Old, 
E'en  then  his  secret  to  his  Michael  told, 
And  to  his  eye  the  sacred  vision  gave. 
Beat  the  waves  down  !  let  them  his  form  behold 
Who  are  his  "  other  sheep,"  not  of  his  early  fold. 

ANTIQUARIAN  HALL,  Worcester. 


WHITE,  BLUE,  AND   GREEN. 

WHITE,  blue,  and  green,  —  the  whirling  train 
Flies  through  the  hills,  across  the  plain. 
The  varied  landscape  rushes  by, 
With  wood  and  snow  and  distant  sky; 
And  still  the  powers  that  shift  the  scene 
Dress  it  in  white  and  blue  and  green. 

No  scarlet  of  the  tropic  zone, 

No  purple  of  imperial  rule; 

The  days  of  storm  and  blood  are  gone,  — 

This  world  is  calm,  serene,  and  cool. 

White  earth,  blue  sky,  and  spread  between 

Forests  of  living  evergreen. 

Ride  on  forever  thus,  in  sooth, 
In  snow-white  innocence  of  youth, 
With  heaven's  own  blue  above  the  scene 
Of  life's  eternal  evergreen. 

PROVIDENCE  RAILWAY. 


A  VALENTINE. 

MY  LADY,  —  Gold  and  silver  rust, 
And  diamonds  wear  away  to  dust ; 
These  three  alone  eternal  prove, 
In  earth  below  and  heaven  above,  — 
Faith,  hope,  and  love. 

This  vase,  by  Benvenuto  wrought, 
This  coronal  of  gold, 

These  diamonds,  from  Golconda  brought, 
Will  tarnish  and  grow  old. 

Such  gifts  as  these  my  lady's  friend 

In  proof  of  friendship  scorns  to  send ; 
He  sends  what  will  eternal  prove, 
Though  rolling  worlds  forget  to  move,  — 
A  faithful  servant's  hopeful  love. 


ON   THE   TRAIN. 

I. 

[At  the  junction  ;  on  the  tender-step.] 

Bill.    John,  you  're  here  too  early ;  see, 
Here  's  the  schedule  time. 
Four  full  minutes  here  to  wait, 
Or  we  smash  the  downward  freight ! 

John.  Bill,  I  know  it,  and  I  try 

To  hold  her  back ;  she  seems  to  fly ! 
Steam  will  make,  and  coal  will  burn, 
Water  boil,  and  drivers  turn. 

All  ahead  of  time,  —  and  I 

And  you  know  why  ! 

II. 

[At  the  drawbridge  ;  on  the  tender-step,  as  before.] 

Bill.    All  ahead  of  time  again  ; 

We  shall  smash  the  local  train ! 
Thunder !  John,  the  devil 's  in  it; 
See  the  watch,  —  six,  seven  minute  ! 


SONNETS,   VALENTINES,   ETC.  I2/ 

John.  Don't  you  think  I  know  it,  Bill? 
Do  you  think  we  have  our  will? 
She  will  go,  and  nothing  hinders, 
Though  the  piston  fly  to  flinders. 
She  will  fly,  —  and  you  and  I, 
Bill,  we  know  the  reason  why ! 

III. 

[At  the  station.] 

John.  Nothing  hinders,  nothing  blocks ; 
All  ahead  of  cards  and  clocks  ! 
How  the  boss  will  swear,  I  know, 
When  upstairs  he  hears  her  blow ! 
Good  for  boss,  if  he  discover 
Boss  can't  part  a  girl  and  lover. 

See  her  standing  at  the  door,  — 

See  her  run  along  the  floor. 
There  !  John  baggage-man  has  found  her ; 
See  him  throw  his  arms  around  her. 
If  you  thought  the  boy  would  miss  her, 
See  him  catch  her  up  and  kiss  her. 

Now  the  boss  and  you  and  I 

Know  what  makes  the  piston  fly,  — 
We  know  why ! 


ON   THE   AUTOCRAT'S   EIGHTIETH 
BIRTHDAY. 

HE  taught  me  my  geology; 

From  him  I  knew 
How,  in  their  rabble  rout, 
The  crazy  crew 
Of  giants  threw 
Their  pudding  and  their  plums  about. 

He  taught  me  modesty ; 
In  sitting  at  his  feet 
I  said  that  I 
Would  never  try 

To  be 

As  funny  as  is  he. 
And  this,  dear  "  Critic,"  will  account  for  me. 

And  how  to  breakfast  he 
Has  taught  the  world,  —  to  be 
Wise  in  such  wise  as  Wisdom's  self  is  wise; 
Yet  playful,  kind,  and  true ; 
To  mingle  old  and  new, 


SONNETS,   VALENTINES,   ETC.  I2Q 

And  well  the  mixture  brew; 
With  fittest  reason 
The  bowl  to  season, 
Then  ladle  out,  profuse,  for  me  and  you. 

But  when  the  war-cloud  growls  and  lowers 

Above  the  land, 

He  takes  command, 
And  shows  the  coward  how  to  try, 
And  shows  the  bravest  how  to  die ; 
Tyrtaeus  sings,  and  cheers  his  boys  and  ours ! 

Blessings  and  thanks  and  praise, 
In  stumbling  verse,  in  sweetest  lays ; 

And  if  grief  come 
Even  to  a  prophet-poet's  home, 
To  him  some  measure  of  the  peace  and  faith, 
The  hope  and  strength  which  conquer  death, 

Which,  in  our  darker  days, 
With  all  a  poet's  prophecy, 
And  all  a  prophet's  poetry, 
And  all  a  wise  man's  wisdom,  he 
Has  sent  to  comfort  you  and  me. 

For  the  "Critic,"  August,  1889. 
9 


MY   GOLD   MINE. 

[A  poem  which  I  will  give  to  any  one  who  will  put  it  in 
rhyme.] 

A  SPANISH  soldier  passed  this  way, 
Hot,  tired,  wretched ; 

His  head  was  bare,  his  feet  were  sore, 

And  his  breast-plate  and  his  morion  hung 
Upon  the  beast  he  led. 

He  dipped  up  the  sand  with  his  hands, 

He  kicked  it  with  his  feet,  — 

And  all  the  time  he  muttered, 
"  Oro,  oro,  —  Nada,  —  nada  " 
"  (Gold,  gold,  —  there  is  no  gold)." 

Hot  and  tired,  he  sat  under  the  pines, 

And  from  his  haversack 
He  took  his  last  Cuban  orange,  — 

This  at  least  was  golden. 

He  sucked  it  dry, 
And  threw  the  skin  and  seeds  away. 


SONNETS,   VALENTINES,   ETC.  131 

Then  the  Furies  drove  him  forward, 
And  he  tramped  on,  upon  his  way, 
Bending  his  head  down  to  look  at  the  sand, 
Kicking  it  with  his  feet,  and   grumbling  as  he 

walked, 

"  Nada,  nada,  —  Oro,  oro  " 
"  (Gold,  gold,  —  there  is  no  gold)." 

I  came  this  way 

Three  hundred  years  after  him,  and  more ; 
I  was  not  looking  for  gold,  — 
I  knew  there  was  no  gold  here. 

I  was  looking  for  the  sky,  and  I  found  it. 
I  had  escaped  from  my  winter  prison, 

Where  the  sky  is  gray ; 
Here  I  found  a  home  for  my  bride 

Where  the  sky  is  blue. 

Where  the  Spanish  tramp  had  thrown  away 
The  skin  and  seeds  of  his  orange  in  the  hummock, 
There  had  grown  a  jungle  of  orange-trees. 

I  cut  off  the  fragrant  flowers 

To  take  to  my  sweetheart, 
To  make  a  nosegay  for  our  wedding 

In  her  frozen  prison. 


132  FOR  FIFTY  YEARS. 

By  the  hummock  I  made  my  home, 
And  here  I  brought  my  bride, 

Away  from  her  prison  ; 

Here  she  lives  with  me,  and  here  my  children 
live,  — 

We  do  not  live  in  prison. 

I  budded  the  orange-trees 
With  the  shoots  of  other  orange-blossoms, 
Which  my  sweetheart  brought  from  her  prison. 

I  screened  them  from  the  sun ; 
I  hoed  away  the  weeds  from  around  the  roots, 

And  the  buds  grew, 
And  the  trees  grew,  —  you  can  see  them, — 

There  —  and  there  —  and  there  ! 

Stranger,  eat  the  fruit, 

There  is  more  than  enough  for  all. 
These  are  the  true  glories  of  the  Hesperides ; 

For  these  Alcides  sailed ; 
These  are  the  true  apples  of  gold. 

My  boys  pick  all  the  fruit  which  no  one  eats; 

They  send  it  North  upon  the  rail, 
To  the  poor  wretches  who  live  in  the  frozen 
prisons. 


SONNETS,   VALENTINES,   ETC.  133 

Stranger,  here  is  the  draft 

Which  those  people  in  ice  have  sent  for  it. 

Do  you  understand  the  writing,  stranger? 
I  shall  give  it  to  my  wife  here. 
It  means  that  her  golden  fruit  has  brought  her 

What  the  Spanish  tramp  did  not  find. 
She  is  my  Danae, 

And  it  will  fill  her  lap  with  gold. 

ORONADA,  Soto  County,  Florida, 
April  i,  1891. 


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